Honor Edgeworth; Or, Ottawa's Present Tense Part 29

"Not a bit," said the man addressed, "we doctors grow quite accustomed to such sights when we have reached my age in the profession."

"I dare say, indeed, doctor," said a credulous looking youth, who was rubbing his unshaved chin and lips with the broad back of a sunburnt hand, "ye must have interestin' sights now and then doctor, though wan 'ud think there wudd'nt be much fuss in a place like this, barrin' it comes from folks' own contrariness, like Michael Doyle's daughter to-day--the world knows if they'd stuck to the old style, like their dacenter neighbors, and burnt their safe tallow candles, Maggie Doyle wuddn't be shrivelled up to a crisp to-night from coal ile 'splosions.

We all told 'em so!"--wound up this matter-of-fact youth, after reviewing in a few words the sad fate of one of the village girls, who had, the night previous, met her death through a lamp explosion that had set fire to her clothes.

"'Tis sad to see a young woman the victim of death," the doctor said reflectively. "I get quite overcome myself when I see them suffer. I have never forgotten the pitiful sight of the young woman we picked up in the bush leading from the 'Grey House' one morning about three years ago."

This familiar allusion of the old doctor's to his experience of that eventful day was as well understood by every one there as it was by himself, but somehow such persons of eminence as doctors or curates of small villages always find the rustic inhabitants ready to appreciate their tales, were it their hundredth repet.i.tion. Fortunately for Guy, some rough sycophant expressed himself interested in the allusion, and asked a question or two, which succeeded in bringing out for about the sixtieth time from the doctor's lips the whole story of Josephine de Maistre's rescue. Guy strained his ears as he leaned sideways to hear the interesting details. He could scarcely conceal his agitation as each precious item dropped from the aged doctor's lips. Finally, Guy laid down his paper and approached the listening group.

"I have overheard your strange story," he said, addressing the venerable man of medicine, "and being of your profession myself, I naturally interest myself in your experience. Did your unfortunate patient die?"

he tried to ask in the most careless curiosity.

The village doctor looked condescendingly on the intruder, and the others in dumb courtesy moved aside to let the new comer through.

"No, she did not die," the doctor answered, rubbing his hands, "but though she recovered her bodily health, her mind was terribly deranged.

None of us could glean anything of importance from her wild answers, she was foolishly inconsistent in everything, but when she spoke of her 'revenge' and of 'Bijou,' whoever that was."

Guy felt as if his heart had bounded into his mouth, and had to muster all the moral courage he could to prevent his betraying himself, his tone was a masterpiece of affected indifference when he asked,--

"Do you know what became of this poor victim after she left here?"

"Oh, we did not lose sight of her," said the doctor, in a tone which insinuated that a suspicion of such neglect insulted the dignity of his profession, "by no means. When she had recovered her physical health under our treatment, we had her transferred to 'Beauport,' where she was sure to be well treated--It was as sad a case on the whole, I think, as was ever recorded," mused the would-be wise and experienced physician, and as Guy agreed with him, he strolled lazily towards the door, and in another moment had quitted the inn.

Guy felt himself now to be the direct depository of a great mission, which his conscience bade him fulfil right away. Just as hurriedly and as anxiously as if he were hastening to the death-bed of his nearest relative, Guy took the very next train down to Quebec, resolving silently to spend every exertion he was capable of in this precious duty, or die.

In the fiercest battles of our daily lives, there are only two incitants which can never fail to give our heart a hope, our hope a courage, our courage a strength, and our strength whatever possible success can be wrung from fate under such circ.u.mstances; these are, the two great influences of hatred--and of love. There is no strength so fierce, so terrible as the hater's, just as there is no strength so steady, so hopeful, so ambitious, as that which guides the lover's hand. We would do a great many hard and trying things for our love's sake, but those things which the righteous could never do--even for their love--are the better sweets of an active hatred. Love has its limits, but hatred--its only sweetness is its infinity, its boundless freedom, and its endless resources.

There was something of both these stimulants pressing Guy Elersley onward to determined action. All the mighty strength of years of subdued love and sincerest devotion spurred him hopefully on, and all the crus.h.i.+ng power of a few days' hatred goaded him on to merciless action.

He stowed away that other every-day life of his, and a.s.sumed this new phase of his existence dutifully and well. The reward stood in the distance, smiling and beckoning, though 'tis true that his eyes could only discover the familiar outlines of his heart's idol through the doubtful mists of the "possible", but it were as well to spend his pent-up emotions in this way as have them crushed from his heart by a merciless blow of fate, in bitter disappointment.

It would scarcely interest the reader to follow Guy Elersley in his rambles, from the time he pa.s.sed out of the dingy doorway of the village public-house until he drew up, after a long drive, before the imposing entrance of "Beauport Asylum." The bracing air of the country road that leads to this establishment had had a most beneficial effect on Guy's temperament, and therefore as he alighted from his _caleche_, his step had resumed something of its old lightness, and his face had lost some of its serious expression.

Guy cogitated sadly as he sauntered quietly up the gravel walks that lead to the main entrance of the edifice. With its air of quiet and peaceful dignity, its beautiful paths, and _parterres_ of blooming flowers, its fountains and grottoes, none could suspect that its melancholy mission was to shelter the n.o.blest work of an Infinite hand in a wrecked and shattered state. There are collected the precious, priceless ruins of the masterpieces of the Artist of Life; an a.s.semblage of ruins over which the most hardened cannot refrain from weeping, were it their very last tear.

Before making any inquiries, Guy pa.s.sed silently as any ordinary visitor through the different apartments of the "women's ward," carefully studying and scrutinizing any young or beautiful faces that might answer the purpose, he was there to serve: but a pained expression of growing disappointment like despair was settling on his face, as he scanned the last group of quiet, staring countenances that remained to be seen.

There was nothing in all that ma.s.s of wrecked humanity which satisfied him.

Quiet, reserved women, looked up into his face with a meaningless gaze as he pa.s.sed from one to another in his eager search, turning their heads stupidly in his direction, as they knitted their well-shaped stockings diligently; other dishevelled, drivelling imbeciles, gathered up in the corners of benches or on the floors, raised their empty eyes to look carelessly out through ma.s.ses of tumbled hair at him, and then with some half articulate chuckle to clasp their hands tightly around their knees again, and drop their heads into their laps.

From these harmless, foolish victims, Guy pa.s.sed eagerly on to the more thrilling presence of the maniacs, but even here, though wild shrieks and dark threatening looks greeted him on all sides, he could not find a clue to a.s.sist in unravelling his secret plot. There were loud toned viragos who screached and roared in fearful imprecations and appealed to unknown people, victims of the demon alcohol--there were the dark, sullen, silent ones, brooding over their imaginary or real wrongs, and weeping and moaning piteously--there were the dangerous, careless and happy victims, who filled the dismal cells with their heart-rending peals of wild laughter, that fall upon the heart like the loneliest knell--there were the apparently quiet, religious ones who addressed their Creator in ceaseless, meaningless prayer, crying for forgiveness and mercy, but there was no bright, pretty French child, who called for "Bijou" or her "revenge," and this discouraged Guy very much. Presently addressing the guide, who escorted him through these apartments of living death, Guy said:

"Have you no cases of love mania, one younger than these?" waving his hand, as he spoke, in the direction of the rooms he had just visited.

The middle-aged guide shook her head sadly and said:

"Not at present, Sir, the last one of that sort, died a few months after admission.

Guy's heart sank as heavily as a lump of lead within his breast.

"Died?" he reiterated in a tone which bespoke a faint hope that the other had made some mistake.

"Yes, Sir, poor thing," said the pensive-looking woman addressed, "she was a beautiful sight to look upon too, such a pretty face, and such slender little hands, she was very melancholy for three or four months, and then died."

"Do you know the circ.u.mstances that brought about her derangement?"

asked Guy, almost in despair of ever solving the tangled problem now.

"I think, if I don't mistake," quietly answered his informant, twirling her thumbs, "that her husband had deserted her, and then committed suicide, although they had been married but a year."

Guy grasped this as the straw to which he might yet cling, and looking hurriedly up at the demure woman who stood watching him silently, he interrupted:

"Pardon my inquisitiveness, madam, but I am in search of a friend, who, I was told, was sent here nearly three years ago, being at that time the unfortunate victim of a love episode."

Guy fancied the reserved matron was casting covert glances at himself, and he fairly staggered as she said in a long breath--

"The pity is, you young gentleman don't repent in time. Where's the use o' looking for the girl, now, she's mad; why didn't ye leave her her senses when she had 'em?"

"My dear woman," Guy gasped, with dilated eyes, "_I_ am not the party to blame, _I_ am only a friend of the young lady's, I am sorry you should consider me guilty of such a serious crime!"

"Oh, beg your pardon, sir," the woman interrupted coolly, "but its not such a great mistake of mine, I'll be bound the young gentleman as has had his finger in the pie, is just as sleek and fine to look at outside as yourself," then meditatively "there's no trusting young men by their looks now-a-days."

Guy could not s.h.i.+rk the truth of this, for Vivian Standish's "outside"

was far more polished than his own, and he therefore accepted the woman's tame apology and calmed down.

"I would give anything I own, that would a.s.sist me in recovering her,"

he said, so earnestly, that his matter-of-fact guide rested her lean chin in her hollow palm, and agreed to "think" for his benefit.

After a second or two fraught with extreme anxiety for Guy, the woman asked:

"Do you know of anything particular to trace her by?"

Guy recalled the village doctor's account and quickly told her, that, the circ.u.mstances connected with her mania had so impressed her, that she continually talked of revenge, frequently using the name "Bijou,"

"she had also," he continued, a little less hopefully, and more reluctantly, "a large Newfoundland dog with her, when she left the doctor's house on the 'Lower Farms'"

"Ah, now I know!" the quiet matron exclaimed in subdued surprise, "the young lady with the dog, sure enough--sure enough, but we don't count her somehow," said the woman, interrupting her exclamation of surprise.

"I am so glad that you remember at last," said Guy, whose heart was throbbing with anxiety while she spoke, "do tell me all you remember of her, like a good woman."

"Well, you see," the provokingly slow woman began, "I was just serving my first year, and I was full of pity and sympathy for the poor souls I saw in trouble--though I become quite used to 'em now--and this young creature in particular went straight to my heart. I was good to her, and she took to me, and we became fast friends; she never would give up the great big dog, and he clung to her in return for all he was worth, but one day this sweet creature called me, and says she, 'don't be uneasy about me Mrs. Hammond, there is nothing very wrong with my brain,' says she, 'I've had a very bad attack of brain fever,' says she, 'and I feel its effects sometimes yet, but that will soon pa.s.s away,' says she, 'and I'll be as right as ever again,' I did not mind this," continued the narrator addressing Guy confidentially, "for the worst of them sometimes talk as sensible as you or me, but, for all that, I hoped in my heart 'twas the truth, and I kept on coming to see her, and talking common sense to her, like I would to you or any other sensible folk, and by and bye, I found out that her own predictions was true, and that she had quite recovered her senses. We reported this, and the attending physician agreed with us, and we were all mighty glad, sir," the woman said kindly "for the sweet girl's own sake."

"And what became of her then?" asked Guy, impatiently, unable to await the woman's pleasure to hear the happy sequel.

"Well sir," continued she, "the young lady said she had neither money nor friends, and expressed a wish to retire to some place, where she could practice acts of grat.i.tude to the Almighty, for having saved her from the threatened fate of madness. She did not tell us quite as plain as that what her intentions were, but we soon found out, so unless anything unusual happened, you will find her yet, cloistered voluntarily in the home of some pious ladies who dwell on the outskirts of the city.

Anyone will drive you there; you are on the road now; it is far enough on the outskirts of the town, but a pleasant drive for all that, and sure, sir, I, for one, wish you the best of success in your undertaking."

"Thank you, my good woman, a thousand times I thank you. You have lightened a great burden from my heart, and I will not forget it either," and as he showered his protestations of grat.i.tude on the head of the gratified matron, he bowed himself out, and beat a hasty retreat back to his carriage.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.