Honor Edgeworth; Or, Ottawa's Present Tense Part 12

CHAPTER XIV.

"Would you had thought twice, Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice."

--_Byron._

We left Guy in Mr. Rayne's study, in sore trouble as to how he could evade the task set him, and join his rioting friends in their proposed amus.e.m.e.nt. He scratched his head and made countless agonizing grimaces; he walked the room in long strides, until his patience had reached an almost impossible limit. Then he thought better of it, and decided to hold a calm, cool and collected council with himself. It was plain to his one-sided judgment that he was called upon to act, and to act immediately. But this was easier said than done. It is simple enough for a fellow to strike splendid chords on the piano, merely by ear, or in a moment of impromptu genius he may construct some wonderful little piece of mechanism; Guy felt that he could achieve countless feats such as these, but he'd be blessed if he could master a double-locked window, or door, through any innate talent, on a dark night, when every one is just asleep sound enough to start at the slightest noise. He had persuaded himself, by means of such fallacies, as come unbidden to the susceptible heart in the hour of temptation, that he must go out to-night by fair means or foul. Once decided, he did not hesitate to act, every one had retired, and surely he might steal out un.o.bserved. The chances were he could get back the same way, and there would be nothing more about his little escapade. Noiselessly, stealthily, he collected the articles of his street wear, and rolling them up in a bundle, laid them by the window. Then nervously, and fearfully, he began the work of undoing the fierce looking bolt over the window. Every one of those queer little noises, the voices of the night, seemed to Guy the words of his uncle reproaching him with his disobedience. Once as he was just about to raise the lower part of the window, a coal gave away in the grate, and the rattle that followed its fall made him quake with fear.

Finally all was silent as Guy held his breath in eager listening, and making a desperate attempt he lifted the ponderous frame slowly and secured it above. Directly under it was the roof of a small balcony that shaded the side of the house. In the summer time it was covered with green vines, which climbed to the very top, but now the stiff withered leaves and dry branches, rustled and cracked in a horrible way as Guy threw down first his bundle, and then proceeded to follow it himself "the devils' children, have the devils' luck," it is said, and it certainly often looks as if that luck was the luckiest of all.

Without scratch, or hindrance of any kind, Elersley reached the ground, and as he b.u.t.toned up his overcoat, matters commenced to look beautifully smooth and easy. He half-expected that the jolly dogs had started on their trip without him, but he was sure of finding company in a great many other places besides, if the first failed him. He was emerging in all possible haste from the gate-way of his uncle's house when he was accosted by the police-man on beat in that vicinity. Here was a "fix." Guy was almost in despair, and it was only on producing cards, and letters, and other substantial proofs of his ident.i.ty that he was left go. He made a quiet determination to have a good time after such hards.h.i.+ps as he had endured, and indeed his determination did not fall too short of the mark. It would scarcely interest the readers to follow Guy Elersley any farther than the gloomy street corner to-night; though perhaps many of them may have often followed his prototype in spirit to such haunts as midnight revellers frequent. Did we accompany him we would have to tear away that opaque barrier, that many young polished gentlemen, have built up before the eyes of their _day_ acquaintances; we would have to call forth tears of bitter bitter anguish, from trusting sorrowing mothers, who are at this same moment praying G.o.d on bended knees, to save their wild wayward boys. We would pierce the hearts of many pure confiding girls, who are buried in dreams of future happiness, and who would not dare suspect the awful truths that are born of the midnight hours. There are, therefore, too many innocent ones interested; too many mothers to wail; too many sisters to bow their heads in shame; too many young loving hearts that would burst were one to spell out the truth in legible characters. "They have eyes and they see not," let us mercifully leave them in their blindness.

Think of all that Guy had encountered to gratify the paltry ambition born of a moment s pa.s.sionate desire; a soul so young, almost fresh from the hands of the Creator, and yet to be so covered with iniquities! How soon he had learned to jest and laugh at good, and to make his religion the wors.h.i.+p of the senses. Saying with Byron,

"Man being reasonable, must get drunk, The best of lift is but intoxication,"

and striving to find in the wine-cup, the satisfaction that our inner nature craves, trying to feed a soul, hungry for the beauties and perfections of the invisible world, with the poisonous food of sensuality. Let us say to it with Shakspeare,

"O thou invisible spirit of wine, If thou hast no name to be known by Let us call thee 'devil.'"

And lest these words betray any of the personal indignation that suggests itself at the moment the reflections upon such lives are indulged in, the voice of this same great poet ran be heard again telling in his emphatic terms,

"I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, The knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porcupine."

But we have only to look around us intelligently to find the secret out ourselves. Society is at the acme of sensuality; it has reached the strangest ant.i.thetical condition. It is degraded in its excessive refinement; it is coa.r.s.e and repulsive in its cultivation, it is ignorant in its enlightenment. Necessarily all this is the effect of a cause, but such a pitiful cause! The total wreck of man's best element.

The once individual corruption has spread its fearful contagion until it has become universal; falsehood is disguised in truth, vice in virtue, and fraud and diplomacy in honesty. If women are expected to live in blissful ignorance of this movement, that expectation is a crowning audacity, for woman's life is destined to be one of action, and she will not sacrifice her n.o.ble mission through purely human motives. She means to save her brother, her lover, her husband, her son, even if the effort includes the forfeiture of her t.i.tle of woman in the eyes of society.

Thus it is, we have been persuaded into an unpremeditated leniency towards the sterner s.e.x, blotting out the pictures of their vicious lives, not indeed to spare them in the very least, but only to save the blush, the sigh, the tear of many a woman whose heart is nigh enough to breaking without a stronger hand striking the last blow in the cruel work of laying bare the awful, the contemptible reality which fills their lives with bitterness and heart-burnings.

We will, then, caution and advise without explaining, and call on our co-laborers to make a grand effort towards reformation, telling them that from the heart of the great cities there rises a wail of sorrow and desolation, that must fall on their ears like a cry of distress from the poor suffering stricken ones, that they must rise bravely, spontaneously, and joining hands they must come n.o.bly to the rescue. It is their lawful, binding duty to reclaim. We must save from the wreck at least those "little ones" that are growing up around us, "for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Why need they ever know the experience that is drunk in the wine cup? Why must they, too, walk in the well-printed footsteps of vice that their elders are treading before them? They must not; they shall not; they dare not! if they have n.o.ble women to direct them, to inspire them with great and holy and generous thoughts, to draw them round the family fireside, to gratify their eager hearts with innocent amus.e.m.e.nts that elevate the mind and bring the soul nearer to G.o.d. Where are the mothers now, who, like Blanche of Castile, can say to their sons, "My child, I would rather see thee dead at my feet than that thou shouldst offend G.o.d mortally." Alas! if in our city alone, mothers were to re-echo that wish and have it granted, many a strong youth would be laid in his coffin before night!

Mothers and sisters will ask, "What can one woman do by herself?" What good? If every mother sends a St. Louis to eternity before her, is not that a magnificent influence on society, and who denies it? Be not discouraged then--withdraw the misplaced sympathies that have been enlisted by thrilling ma.n.u.scripts or exciting anecdotes in the cause of missions and religious undertakings abroad. At home, within your own most intimate circle you have a mighty field for your labors. Hearts to which you are closely attached are sadly in need of your attention, and while you are so solicitous in providing for corporal necessities and comforts, forget not the poverty, the dest.i.tution of the moral nature.

Wrap the robe of innocence and repentance round the heart that is naked and susceptible to all the influences of foul weather. Go bravely forth in the bark of divine charity and save the soul that is tossing helplessly on an angry sea, without food or support or safety, plunging into irremediable debauchery, as Guy Elersley is to-night.

CHAPTER XV.

"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 p.r.o.nounced tendency to _embonpoint_, tried to persuade himself that his head was really covered, although Guy's hat, to do its most generous, could never s.h.i.+eld more than the extreme top of his hair. s.n.a.t.c.hes of their conversation only rea.s.sure 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 s.h.i.+lling 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 rec.u.mbent 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 relations.h.i.+p 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.

CHAPTER XVI.

"O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove, Wer't not that thy sour leisure gives sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love."

--_Shakespeare_.

"And so you think of going back to Ottawa so soon? Well, I suppose the magnet is hidden somewhere, that draws you towards it," and Jean d'Alberg laughed playfully as she turned to address her words to Honor, who was yet buried in the snowy linen of her comfortable bed.

Honor clasped her hands over her head and smiled a little sadly, saying:

"Yes, I like Ottawa--more than I thought I did, and if it is just the same to you I think we need make no longer delay here."

"My dear child," Mrs. d'Alberg said as she brushed a long switch of auburn hair very briskly, "I thought I explained to you sufficiently that all things are perfectly alike to me. I will certainly go as soon as you wish, so don't wait for my decision."

"I suppose you will think me capricious and hard to please dear Jean, but somehow I feel a little lonely for Ottawa."

Jean smiled meaningly as she answered "Well I suppose it is a case of reciprocity at its best and what you miss most must be what misses you most, therefore it becomes your duty as well as your pleasure to restore matters to their former equilibrium without further delay."