Honor Edgeworth; Or, Ottawa's Present Tense Part 39

"Do you recognize this _gentleman_, mademoiselle?" Guy said, addressing the girl, and pointing in mock civility to Vivian.

"Oh! yes, sir--I do indeed," she answered in a sweet, melancholy voice, "it is Bijou--see! he recognizes me!"

All eyes were turned on Vivian Standish. He trembled violently. He looked up once, while they all stared him so suspiciously, and that look was directed towards Honor; he saw her clear grey eyes buried in his tell-tale face. He leaned against the tall back of a chair unsteadily, hesitated a moment, and then addressing Henry Rayne, said, in a husky and trembling voice,

"It would not avail me much to try my defence under these crushing circ.u.mstances, Mr Rayne, but at least I can have my say as well as the others. I admit that in years gone by, I was guilty of many things of which you did not suspect me, but a man is not supposed to disgrace himself for his whole life because he has at one time committed extravagant follies. I thought I had buried my past forever, or I should never have taken advantage of your hospitality as I have. Guilty as I was, I could not help being influenced by the fascination that bound me to your home--the resistless attractions of that girl," pointing to Honor. "I leave it now, disgraced, condemned, but at least, you, who are all so blameless, can consent not to crush me entirely. In administering justice, be a little kind, my misery is bitter enough--G.o.d knows!"

Then Fifine de Maistre stepped forward and laid her hand on the shoulder of the wretched man.

"Vivian Standish," she said, "you have wronged me, inasmuch as a man can wrong a woman; you have driven my good father to any early grave, and blighted every hope I had for the future, and though my heart lies shrivelled and dead where _you_ have left it, _I_ forgive you!"

At these words, the look of hard contempt in every eye, melted into one of glowing admiration; tears stood in Honor's eyes, though she had worn such a merciless expression before, and Vivian Standish as he raised his face from his trembling hands, looked calmer and more resigned, he turned his eyes on the slight figure standing beside him, and said in a nervous voice of emotion,

"May G.o.d bless you, Fifine, you can never regret these words."

Henry Rayne's feeble voice was the next to be heard.

"This strange, painful news," he said, "is a greater shock to me than anything else in the world that I could hear of. I have received you Standish, and treated you as an intimate friend of my family, and had you in return, confined your deceptions to myself, I might yet have forgiven you; but knowingly, to extend your treachery to that innocent and unsuspecting girl, aware, as you were that she was all in all to me, is a base ingrat.i.tude that living or dying, _I_ will never forgive. What would she have become? blighted in hopes, ruined in prospects for life, and by my urgent request too, that, she would have been very soon, but for--you," he said, turning towards Guy, "you, my boy, have saved my heart from breaking, though I did not deserve it from you. I suppose it is too late to seek your forgiveness now after I have judged you so hastily, and punished you so severely, but G.o.d knows, I have repented of it many a time since."

His voice broke down, into a weak sob, and he bowed his head.

"You think too harshly of me, uncle dear," Guy said, advancing, "for I have long ago forgotten the past; the day I left your house I took my first step to good fortune, and I have never regretted your severity since, though it pained me much at the time. It has all blown happily over now, however, and I have tried in a measure to atone for the folly of my past, let us learn a lesson for the future from the misunderstanding, but in every other respect let us forget that it has ever occurred."

"Bless you, my n.o.ble boy," were the words his uncle answered, "you are a treasure, and I am proud to own you."

Meantime, the other two gentlemen, stood watching the strange proceeding, until Guy, remembering them, said--addressing all present--

"These gentlemen will explain their own presence."

Whereupon, one of them, the most respectable of the two, stated in brief, business like terms, that "he had been the family lawyer of the Bencroft's for many years, and that previous to his recent demise, Nicholas Bencroft had laid information with him, against one Vivian Standish, for swindling him out of a considerable sum of money, and that he had come there to see the man identified by the one who knew him best--it being unnecessary now, to tell him, he concluded, that the punishment of his crime awaited him," he then drew back to make clear the way for his companion, who, as he advanced said,

"And I sir, am the person engaged by the father of this young lady, previous to his death, to hunt up the mystery of his daughters'

disappearance. The whole catalogue of her wrongs and misfortunes being attributed to you, you are my prisoner, until your trial has taken place."

"May G.o.d help me!" came in heart-rending tones from the bowed face of the accused man. "It has all come down upon me together," he moaned, raising his trembling hands to his throbbing temples, then with one pitiful, appealing, contrite look he scanned the faces of all those present, and gave himself voluntarily up, a guilty man, a culprit. He was escorted out of the house where he had shone as a star in the days of his freedom, out of the spot which held all that his poor miserable heart could care for now. Vivian Standish, the bright comet of Ottawa's gay season, seated in a corner of that covered sleigh, on that bright morning, was a hopeless, ruined man, outcast, dejected, wretched.

Fifine de Maistre, in her sad voice, spoke a touching farewell to Honor and Guy and Henry Rayne. The holy resignation of her words, and the Christian spirit in which she forgave her wrongs, had strangely edified her hearers. Mr. Rayne and Honor pressed her very hard to remain and share their hospitality longer, but this she gently declined to do, and with affectionate, grateful thanks to all, and to Guy in particular, she left the house in company with the serious looking elderly lady, who awaited her, the last but one of the interesting personages who had appeared in the closing scene of the strange drama of "a culprits life."

When quiet was restored, and the din of accusing voices had ceased, Henry Rayne looked proudly up at the manly young fellow who stood before him, and said,

"Guy, I can never thank G.o.d sufficiently for having sent you so fortunately, in time to interrupt the course of the terrible destiny that I was forcing on to my poor little girl. A little longer would have made all the difference of a lifetime--a young life shattered and crushed in its bloom, and some day _she_ would be justified in cursing my memory and my name, after I had tried, in blind love, to secure her unalloyed happiness. I cannot live to return you, in deeds of active merit, compensation for the good you have done me--that I know and regret, but in some way I must find a means of acknowledging all I owe you, my dear boy." Here he hesitated a little, and looking from one to the other of the young people standing before him, resumed.

"I suppose I am more unworthy than ever, to express a wish or a hope now, but let me tell you, before I die, of the wild wish that animated my heart to the very end, the gratification of which, would be the summit of my earthly expectations."

"What is it?" and "speak it!" broke, simultaneously, from the young people's lips.

"'Tis this," he said, stretching out his feeble hands, and taking one of each in their nervous clasp, "'tis to join together both those little hands, by these, my old, trembling ones, that would so unconsciously have wronged them to knit them together in one holy link, that I might fasten, with the last remnant of my lifes strength--that is the old man's ambition now, the ambition of long ago, re-awakened and revived, the plan conceived before the clouds of dissension gathered over our happy home the plan re-conceived when the dark clouds have melted away into obscurity, and threaten us no more."

The hands thus joined, this time lay willingly clasped together. Honor did not seek to s.n.a.t.c.h hers from the light, warm grasp that held it a prisoner, while Guy gathered in the little trembling fingers into his strong palm, as the miser does the yellow gold he has long coveted. The lovers looked meaningly at one another and then Guy, whose eyes were brimful of unspoken emotion answered his uncle saying,

"You had said you could not live to compensate me for what I have just done. Now, let me tell you that twere worth a whole life-time of wrongs and misfortunes to me, if compensation meant _this_" and with these words he brought his other hand over the willing little captive he already held in one. "It has been the dream of my life too, uncle," he continued, "it has been the only hope that encouraged me through weary scenes of strife and disappointment, and if I can receive it from your own hand, and with your blessing, my cup of bliss vill indeed be filled to overflowing."

"And you, little one?" Henry Rayne faltered, looking up at Honor through his tearful eyes.

"I?" the girl answered with blushing, averted face, "It is the most I had over hoped for. Therein my happiness also dwells."

The old man bowed his head for an instant, and then raised his eyes and scanned the face of his _protegee_ curiously.

"Do you mean to tell me," he asked in profound astonishment, "that you have loved Guy Elersley through all these years?"

"That I have," she answered firmly.

"But--" began he.

"I know what you would say," she interrupted quietly. "That a moment ago I was ready to sacrifice my love, to belie my heart, to crush my fondest hope--and that is true, indeed. I was a friendless, helpless, orphan child when you took me under your care, and watched me, and guided me, and gave me every comfort your happy home afforded, in everything you have proved yourself the most devoted friend in the world and knowing this, feeling, realizing this, as I did, could I on the mere account of natural prejudice, deny you the favor you asked of me so humbly? What was my love, my ambition, my hope, to my duty towards you, the representative of my dead father? Nothing at all. I did it miserably, badly, I know. I clung to my heart's inclination with the very last breath of freedom I drew, and then when I had trampled it, though so cowardly, I felt that I had done my very best to repay you your devotedness and kindness. If destiny has pleased to show us that she was only trying us, we at least have given proof to one another of our confidence and love--but I earnestly hope that never again will destiny play the same game with our hearts."

A low sob broke from the old man's lips. As she finished, he drew her gently towards him, and in a voice that shook with pain and emotion, he began:

"Oh, Honor! my dear little one. How could you have tortured your poor n.o.ble little heart like this? What terrible things I must have made you do unthinkingly? and I dreaming all the while it was my boundless love alone that influenced me. But believe me, child these feeble, wrinkled hands would burn heroically over the slowest fire before they could be raised in voluntary tyranny over you. I would rather far that these dim eyes became stone blind to the light of heaven than that they should cast one glance of undue reproach upon you. Aye, and my very heart would break within me rather than it should foster one sentiment that was not love for you, and yet, feeling thus, I was driving you to ruin and wreck. Instinct taught you the terrible truth, and you would blight your life rather than not suit the whims of a thoughtless old man. How can I ever look you in the face again? Oh! my dearest child, this indeed is too much--too much--too much" and sobbing violently, the bowed head, with its snow-white locks, fell on the shoulder of the tearful girl kneeling beside the old man's chair. In her gentlest, most childish and winning way, Honor, brightening up her countenance, said to her disconsolate guardian,

"Well, if you are really sorry, as you pretend, it is not a very good proof that you love me as much as you say."

At this the bowed head was raised, and a glance of hopeful enquiry cast on the girl's face.

"Well, it is this way," Honor continued, answering it: "you see, if Vivian Standish had never been encouraged by you, he would never have come here at all, and Guy would never have been alarmed about us, and would not have come back at all, and then, of course, we would never have all been reunited. I would be a gloomy, grumbling old maid, that could never be happy, and life would have been painfully glum for the future, whereas,"--and here the old, care-worn face smiled, as it watched the good, kind features of the girl--"you brought everything to a beautiful crisis, by pretending to force another man on me, for I really don't believe now, you meant me to marry him at all," she said, laughing outright, and kissing away the remnants of the old man's grief from his sorrowful face.

"You are an angel of consolation, besides everything else," was all that Mr. Rayne could answer to her pretty speech, but he clasped again the hands of the two young people he loved, and in an earnest, pious tone, he said:

"I give you, one to another: may you live to gladden and comfort one another's hearts, through a long, prosperous and holy life; and remember, that each time you dwell upon the memory of the old man, who was foolish, only in his wild love for you both, that he has begged of G.o.d on this day, to sanction this humble blessing by one from on high, and that the desire for your future welfares, was the very last desire he had satisfied in this life and now, my children, I will leave you, I am tired and worn out, and would like to rest. Will you each lend me an arm, as though no estrangement had ever come between us? Come! forgive the old man. Come, Honor! come, Guy! 'tis the last time I will ask you to a.s.sist me up these stairs."

"Do not say such ugly, ominous words, dear Mr Rayne," Honor pleaded, sliding her arm in a fond way into his, and with Guy on the other side of him, the old man, smiling happily, was a.s.sisted back to his pillows, whence, it may as well be said, he never rose again.

The excitement of Vivian Standish's capture and arrest, with the unexpected circ.u.mstances of Guy's return, and Honor's great sacrifice, had only served to hasten the slow progress of a fatal illness. For days after, he weakened gradually, but hopelessly, yet filled with such a holy resignation and peaceful endurance, as could not help softening the terrible grief that would have been resistless, had he suffered without fort.i.tude or hope.

CHAPTER XL.

Man's uncertain life.

So like a ram-drop, hanging on the bough.

Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kindred, The remnants of some pa.s.sing 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 antic.i.p.ation 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."