Guy, who watched these interesting proceedings in silent amusement, could not subdue the curiosity which prompted him to say.

"I thought you were going to have a smoke for yourself, Mr. Crowley?"

"H'm, so did I, meself," returned Pat.

"And why don't you? I don't object."

"Och divil a thing but smoke was in the insthrument, bad luck to it,—however sir, as ye say ye carry the tabakky about wid ye, take a loan o' the pipe an' welcome, for 'twould never be Pat Crowley, 'ud sit down with that in his pocket, that could make another man happy, and him not wantin' it nayther."

The hint had the desired affect. Guy's face broke into a broad smile, as the true meaning of the words showed itself.

"I have the tobacco he said, and no pipe as you suspect, and your moral is mine, too Crowley, so here's the tobacco and use your pipe to the best of its advantages old fellow."

As Crowley's gratified smile wrinkled over his face and rested in emphatic creases around his eyes, he readjusted the dwarfed pipe between his sallow teeth, and Guy heard him mutter, as he leaned forward to rest the lines, while he rubbed the little shavings between his brawny hands. "Ye're a dacent mother's son, ivery inch o'you, so ye are."

When the curling clouds of smoke, piled upwards over Crowley's head from Guy's good tobacco, the "nag" was touched up, with a multiplied emphasis on the technical snack, and was kept trotting to the utmost limit of her lazy agility during the remainder of the drive. Crowley must have repented his own surliness in the stingy information he gave, respecting the place they were driving to, for, settling himself in a safe heap on the leather cushion of his semi-respectable conveyance, he began:

"This house, yer honor, that we're dhrivin to, mebbe, you'd like to know, now that I do remember that I know somethin' of it, 'tis the natest little hole in Quaybec, though I don't think many knows much about it, ye see, it doesn't belong to any reg'lar nuns, them allays does good, and so does these, although they remind me more of the 'old maid,' they live in what they call 'volunthry sayclusion,' an faith it don't matther a hang to the world what they live in, I belave there's no love lost between 'em an' the world, leastways no one knows where they came from, an' there's not manny as tries to find out, they do be singin' an' prayin' an' carryin' on wid all sorts o' religis capers, and in troth, I think meself, that Pat Crowley's battered ould sowl 'ud look as fine in Heaven any day, that is, if it ever gets there."

"I daresay, Pat," Guy answered, "you are a very good man no doubt."

"I'm not good, bad luck to me," the old fellow returned half gruffly, "but faith if I do the 'ould boy' a turn now and thin, it's sore agin me grain, an' I'm not without tellin' him so, but shure he's the very divil for plaguing the best natured man in creation, unto doin' mischief."

Guy laughed outright at this original declaration and said teasingly:—

"You should run away from the devil, Crowley, like the ladies in this little retreat, and wisely shun temptation in such seclusion."

"Troth, the deuce a temptation 'ud iver bother thim, while there was anyone else to be had, divil a one o' them 'ud be there at all, if they iver got the temptation to marry, och I know all about 'volunthry sayclusion,' I'd do it meself rather than be an ould maid."

"I think," Guy said, laughing, "that you are in as much danger of one of these, as the other, but you should be a little more partial to these virtuous ladies than you are. I'll not speak any more of them, lest you should condemn them altogether."

"Well, sir," said the old cabman, rising from his seat, "ye may go in now and judge for yerself, here's the blessed saintly spot itself and a dale more snug and genteel it looks than my little house. Now, I'd bet me Sunday brogues, 'tis yerself'll be sorry such fine young women 'ud believe in volunthary sayclusion. When you get inside them walls ye'll see that 'tis jokin' I was, an' that there's fine specimins of beauty and gentility there that 'ud make quare havic among your own kind, if they remained outside," he said laughing broadly, and poking the end of his whip into Guy.

"I dare say, Crowley, but my mission here is strictly a charitable one, and I don't intend to let anything else distract me from it," said Guy, good humoredly, and as Crowley knotted the cracked leather lines around a trimly painted post that stood by the entrance, Guy closed the modest little gate and walked steadily up the gravel path, to the long low square building that stood before him. There were even rows of small windows, tastily but simply decked in muslin screens and showing dainty bows of spotless ribbons; a few pots of blooming plants standing outside on the broad flat sills lent a charm to the quiet beauty of the shining panes and the muslin screens. Neat beds in the front of the house were covered with the richest flowers, and well trimmed lawns sloping away at either side of the spacious building, thrust the idea of primness on the intruder. As a limit to the grounds were groves of tall thick trees encircling all the well-kept parterre within.

There was a low, broad verandah in front of the house whose steps Guy had just mounted, and when about to drop the shining knocker he held in his hand, the saddest, sweetest strains of a human voice he had ever heard, arrested the movement. He laid the heavy "dog's head" quietly back and walked a couple of steps towards the end of the platform, which commanded a view of the rear lawn, with its summer-houses, and vines, and rockeries, and all such lovely elements, which contributed towards making the rustic nook a veritable paradise.

Glancing stealthily through the green lattice-work that separated him from the grounds, Guy saw, with intense admiration and wonder, the figure of a young and lovely girl, seated on a low rustic bench, with a great, shaggy dog crouched at her feet. She held within her dainty hands, a small book covered in black cloth, and swinging from the end of which was a long silk tape and a medal, with which her delicate fingers were toying carelessly. Presently she closed the little volume, bound the long tape around it, securing it with the tiny medal, then folding her hands, she raised her eyes, and in the saddest, sweetest and clearest tones, her musical voice warbled the words,—

"Mother pure and mother mild Hear the wailing of thy child. Listen to my pleading cry, Hearken to my heart's deep sigh—" Ora pro me

The dreamy, dark eyes rested for a moment in their upturned attitude, the slender hands remained clasped tightly together, but only while the echo lingered of the sweet, sad voice, which had stolen from her lips as a breathing anthem from on high. Guy was mesmerized—lost to everything but the one vision which fascinated his gaze; he had ever been susceptible to beauty's influence—with some people, the silent contemplation of breathing beauty becomes a wild passion, and in Guy Elersley, appreciation of such eloquent loveliness was bordering on this superlative limit—and yet there was so little art about the being he was devouring with such greedy eyes. She wore a plain, neat costume of drab serge, a deep linen collar fastened high at her throat, and deep bands of the same at her wrists; her rich, dark hair was short and crept in large negligent waves over her shapely head, her face was very pale, which contrasted favorably with the dark hair and eyes, and the deep rich color of her well-curved lips. The close-fitting spencer jacket was gathered in with a very broad belt at her small waist, and the neat, heavy skirt fell in uninterrupted, plain folds to her ankles. Suddenly, while Guy watched her, she started as if waking from a lethargy, and turning to the animal that crouched lovingly beside her, she said,—

"Come Sailor dear, we are late for study hour."

Instinctively the brute roused and shook his shaggy fur at the sound of her voice, looking up trustfully into the kind face of his mistress. With a light and fleet step, Fifine turned towards the side entrance of the building, wherein she and her faithful companion vanished in a moment, leaving Guy petrified with silent wonder and admiration on the other side of the lattice work.

It would be impossible to describe the conflict of emotions that passed through Guy Elersley's breast at this moment; the bitter indignation he had felt up to this for Vivian Standish was nothing when compared with the inveterate contempt and hatred that substituted it at sight of this lovely wrecked flower, which he saw pining and withering in beautiful decline, far away from the world she could so easily have dazzled. It was with a dangerous light in his eyes, and a threatening vow in his heart, that Guy knocked this time at the broad hall door. His call was answered by an elderly woman of quiet, reserved appearance, who neither seemed surprised nor concerned by his visit. In as respectful and business-like a manner as possible, Guy asked for the lady directress of the institution, and was immediately shown by this silent noiseless woman into an apartment at the right, where she left him to wait alone in his wonder for a few moments.

The room was scrupulously neat, and tolerably well-furnished, but there was a painful simplicity and provoking fitness and quaintness about the things he saw, that upset his nerves uncomfortably. Every element of furniture was so intensely appropriate, and consistent with all the surroundings; the silence was so settled and sacred, and the noiseless tread of the inmates, as they glided here and there through the passages, almost irritated him. He was soon distracted from these trying observations, however, by the entrance of a dignified haughty-looking woman of about forty years; she was attired in the same simple costume which he had just admired on the young girl in the garden, except that her hair, sprinkled here and there with silver threads, was tucked neatly under an old-fashioned head-dress of muslin that strangely became her handsome face. Still standing a little inside the door-way, this cold, reserved woman looked enquiringly, and waited for Guy to speak his errand, whatever it might be.

"I have intruded here," Guy began with not too much confidence in his colloquial powers, "to enquire for a young girl named Josephine de Maistre, who, I am told was admitted here some time ago. I do not know the young lady personally," Guy frankly avowed, "nor have I ever spoken to her; but I have been entrusted with a very serious duty to discharge relative to her, and if it be not encroaching on your rules, I would be glad to interview the young lady."

An answer came in cold words, from an unmoved face:

"It is not our custom," the stately woman began, "to admit young male visitors to our home without urgent cause for so doing. Show me that you are justified in seeking a deviation from our custom, and I will grant it."

Guy fidgeted with his watch chain, and with a little hesitation which shewed how much he dreaded any indiscretion on his part, he asked,

"Are you acquainted with any details of Miss de Maistre's life before her coming here?"

With the same placid face, his companion answered,

"I know everything—she has had no secret from me."

"Then I am safe in broaching the subject to you," Guy answered more freely, and accordingly, in as brief terms as possible, he confided his mission to this haughty woman, leaving her then to judge for herself whether the responsibility bequeathed him by dying lips justified or not his intrusion within this quiet home. When he had finished, the set brow of his listener relaxed a little, into an almost involuntary expression of interest.

"You may see her presently," said the stern lady, "I am glad you have come so soon. It was very hard to persuade her at first that God's retribution would come time enough, she was so eager to avenge her wrongs with her own hand, but now that she has fully conquered her sinful desire for vengeance, God thinks fit to act. I will send her to you directly," and with these words she swept noiselessly out through the shadowy doorway, leaving Guy tangled up in the strangest sensations.

There was a moment of suspense before the dignified woman re-appeared, leading the beautiful heroine of his vision in the grounds into Guy's presence. There was a melancholy beauty in that face, whose memory never after ceased to haunt his heart. Something so appealingly sorrowful, and yet so coldly sad, that one pitied and admired and loved in the one glance. The long, dark lashes that fringed the white lids, and rested languidly on the pallid cheeks, every now and then shaded the deepest, dreamiest and most mournful eyes Guy had ever seen, and the subdued passion and smothered emotion that the keen glance might detect trembling on her full, red lips, was grander to Guy than anything else human he could conceive. Then the large, creeping waves of the dry, dark hair that encircled her intelligent brow, and nestled around her well-formed ears to her shapely neck behind, capped the climax of Guy's rapturous admiration.

The childish simplicity with which she stood before him coupled so strangely with a mien of reserve and independence, put Guy greatly at a loss to know how he was to take this strange creature. There was no conceit, no vanity, no empty pride accompanying all that dazzling beauty. Guy allowed that at one time this face must have worn becomingly the expression of coquetry—may be there was once a pleasure in showing this face to its best advantage, with the assistance of studied apparel, but now! all that was a buried past. There was now a look of wild, natural beauty that had not been fettered by rules of fashion or style; no attempt at effect in the plain, simple costume that clung so becomingly to her svelte figure. No artful use was made of those perfect features; she looked like a child-woman—so sweet, so innocent, so simple, and yet so grand, so sad, so serious.

Guy stretched forth his hand in a friendly way, as she entered, saying,

"We are strangers in one way, Mademoiselle de Maistre, but in a thousand ways we are very good friends, at least, such is my disposition towards you."

She placed her small, tender hand in his, and scanned his face a little doubtingly.

The majestic lady "directress" encircling the girl in her arms, said earnestly,

"I will leave you with this gentleman; trust him, my dear, he is your friend," and then she very considerately left the room.

Guy, on finding himself alone with the object of his search, entered into business immediately.

His voice was touchingly respectful and sympathetic as he addressed Fifine.

"I hope," he began, "that you will not object to my recalling certain events of your past life, mademoiselle. I have been commissioned to bear you a message, relative to a detail of your unusually sad experience, but I would first like to know that it does not pain you too much to hear your past repeated."

"Oh, sir!" she said, clasping her hands and looking devoutly up, "don't spare me on that account. When we have been able to do wrong, we should be able to bear the consequences, whatever they be. Besides, my past has never been a past to me—all is as vivid to-day as it was in the first hours of my experience. I have only memory left me from that frightful past."

"Then we may as well proceed to the point immediately," added Guy, who was feeling slightly uncomfortable over the task.

"I am a doctor by profession, mademoiselle, and have, for the last few years, been practising in the city of New York. Some months ago I was summoned to the bed-side of a man in typhoid fever, in whom I recognized an old school friend. He was evidently delighted at the freak of good fortune that brought us together, for, as he told me, there was a secret gnawing at his heart, that he longed to disclose. I sat down beside him and heard, mademoiselle, from his fevered lips, the shameful account of a wedding ceremony, of which you were such an unfortunate victim."

Fifine was clutching her fingers convulsively, and there was a look of suppression in her sad face that touched Guy, he was, however, anxious to get through with his disagreeable tale, and hurried on.

"He bade me seek you out, mademoiselle, only to tell you that since that eventful night, he has wandered through life, dogged and shadowed by a cruel remorse, which ultimately laid him on the bed where I found him. One thing he craved with his dying lips, mademoiselle, that the message be borne you from him, of your freedom; that you be told how that ceremony was a mockery, null and void, and after this disclosure, if pardon were possible, that you might try to forgive him his blind share in the disgraceful deed. The person I allude to, mademoiselle, was the pretended clergyman who married you that night." He looked now into the struggling face beside him, he knew the conflict that was raging in that soul. The trembling lips parted while he watched, and he heard the low murmur of a sanctified soul, as it breathed. "As we forgive them that trespass against us," she answered back the look of anxious enquiry he cast upon her face for a moment, and then cried:

"Do you say I am free? Not bound to anyone? Untrammelled all this time that I have lived in imaginary slavery, oh, how much I have suf—" but she checked the impulse that bade her murmur, and said instead, "because I have done wrong myself, I can forgive. I know how the guilty heart craves for pardon, how the loaded conscience aches for relief, and therefore, you can take my entire forgiveness back to the penitent who asks it. After all," she continued, in a sort of soliloquy, "forgiveness is easier than revenge."

"You are a noble little soul," said Guy, touched by the piety and fervor of this blighted little heart.

"Ah, sir! it is not that," Fifine said regretfully, "I might have been that, if I had lived contentedly among the comforts, where God had so generously placed me, and not sighed to adopt a world of sin and shame, rather than sacrifice it. I can never be that now. I have killed my poor loving father: I have blighted my life—there is only penance and atonement now to bid me hope," then passing her hand wearily over her eyes, she exclaimed in a long sigh, "So strange, all this! I thought that ugly chapter was over and done with, for everyone but me. And this man that sent you, who is he?" queried she.

In words as brief and clear as possible, Guy told her the story of his night by Nicholas Bencroft's bed-side, dwelling emphatically upon the pitiful effects that remorse and reverses had left, where innocence and prosperity had once been. The girl's face clouded at intervals, as she listened to the strange, touching recital, and she felt a sympathy in the end, for this other poor victim, who, like herself, had been led into evil, blindfolded.

After a long, long interval, Guy rose to depart, not however, without having made every arrangement with Fifine that was necessary to render her justice, and give Vivian Standish his due. Even towards this latter, she would not now indulge feelings of her old hatred. She asked that he be dealt with as leniently as possible, "for, sir," she argued, "the wicked are wicked only because of their weakness. They are so much weaker than the good; and just as the man of physical strength is merciful with one who is physically weak, so should the rule apply to moral strength, and let him who can brave temptation deal gently with the poor, weak sinner." And then they parted to the time, Fifine having agreed to seek permission to enable her to take any active steps that should be deemed necessary for the rendering of calm, quiet justice to Vivian Standish's victims.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, But Hope the charmer, hunger'd still behind. —Campbell.

The gold and amber leaves, turned their withered edges inward, and fell, in sear, crisp decay, from the half-naked trees. The flowers were all dead. The songs of the summer birds were entirely hushed, and thus stripped of all its rustic beauty, Ottawa stood, in mid-autumn, awaiting the pleasure of winter.

It was the season, which of all others, appealed most eloquently to Honor Edgeworth's heart, to her, the season of "falling leaves" and "moaning winds," was nature's most sympathetic response, gratifying, as it did, the melancholy tendency in her nature.

The dear, dead summer, had fled into that vast eternity. Little, trifling experiences, that at one time meant almost nothing, looked precious and eloquent, now that her eyes viewed them, with that backward glance, which one casts so sorrowfully on the things that are receding from them forever. Little words she had heard, little kindnesses she had felt, little songs she had sung, aye, and even little tears she had shed! all were wafted back for one delightful moment of sweet regret. She stood by the window again, as she did a year ago, two and three years ago, as she would, likely, in years to come, sunk in a reverie, watching the leaves fall, as they fell a twelve-month since; the leaves were just the same, the sky seemed still unchanged, the wind chanted the same weird, lonely lamentation, only she was different, something had come into her life in that interval of years, and had gone out of it again, leaving it so desolate, so aimless, so blank! She had had a good draught from the cup of life, since that other autumn evening, when she stood at this very window, moralising on the transient nature of all mortal things. She had drunk deeply enough to know, that for souls like hers, happiness, is scattered among briars and thorns; she was a wiser, a sadder, perhaps even a better girl, this autumn day, but she was not happier, oh no!

In a slow, solemn procession, the items of her years' experience, passed before her eyes, between the dead leaves and the closed window pane, she saw a panorama of memory. She was looking back with a sorrowful gratification upon the work of a couple of twelve-months, sighing now and then, smiling now and then, but never very happy over the suggestive souvenirs.

Altogether, Honor Edgeworth, had nothing of the superficialities, which characterize the majority of Ottawa young ladies, who have the "splendid advantages," and "glorious times" that she enjoyed. One was easily convinced, on knowing her, that riches and light pleasures, such as delight the average society girl, could not constitute her happiness, she shared these things out of a sense of duty, because it was customary for girls in her position to do so, but principally because Mr. Rayne had expressed a wish to that effect. She had been, and not unknowingly, the subject of sublime envy for a whole season in Ottawa, and had created no little furore in a succession of stylish watering-places during the summer spell, and yet, here she was, after all that, in the face of another winter of gaiety and excitement, with the same cold indifference in her heart, and the same reserve and dignity in her manner.

Henry Rayne, was fast declining in health. The exertions of an active life were beginning to tell seriously on him, his heart troubled him, and his head troubled him, and Honor's future troubled him more than either. He continually worried and thought over the time, when he would not be nigh to protect her, or guide her: her welfare was about the only mental problem he tried to solve, as he sat through the long hours of the day wrapped up in a cushioned fauteuil.

Vivian Standish, still flickered around the flame awaiting his doom; there was hope for him, while Henry Rayne regarded him, in the favorable light he did. His past career, seemed to have become a blank to him now, he could not understand how retribution had not caught up to him in the race, and so dropped trying to: he did not fear Bencroft, for his share of the guilt was about equal, but the magnanimity, or idiocy, of the "little one" if she had survived, he thought to be very convenient; of course, if through his instrumentality, she had passed into a fairer and a better land, why so much the better for all parties concerned. He had held himself on the "look out" for months after his vile commission, ready, for the first insinuation of his guilt, that went abroad, but now that the period had lengthened into years, and he had pretty nearly exhausted the wages of his deed, he felt a sort of protection, and blotted out all uncomfortable reminiscenses from his memory. He had laid himself out, now, to play another little game, but this game, in its denouement had surprised him more than he expected.

Being a conceited fellow, he did not relish indifference, much less, marked coldness, nearly so well, as the pronounced admiration, with which he was wont to be received, but with all his attractions and efforts, he could only extract the most rigid politeness from Honor Edgeworth. "Bad beginning," he thought, as he tugged his long moustaches, and smiled superciliously with his handsome lips and dreamy eyes. Vivian Standish, for so many years, by profession a deceiver, had at length, made a false step which compromised himself seriously, as quietly and neatly, and securely as he had ever entrapped any victim, he was now entrapping himself in his own very meshes. Very coldly and mechanically indeed, he had planned his courtship with Honor Edgeworth, a thing, in his intentions to be a pure calculating process, a speculation, and now unknown to himself, almost unfelt by himself, his low ambition had led him into a snare; he began to grow uncomfortable under the calm, steady gaze of this dignified girl, he measured his words, and restricted himself generally, which in itself, was the strangest possible thing for him to do. He began to feel, that to lose her now, would make something more than a pecuniary difference to him, he had transferred the object of his craving from her dowry to herself, and to feel that he really wanted something which in any way could add to his material comfort, was, in itself the most powerful stimulus, that Vivian Standish had ever known. The fact that he worked out his own gratification sustained him through many a discouragement; may be it will cause no one to wonder either, for when one has gone through fire and water for someone else, one's heart clings almost involuntarily to him ever after, one's interest never dies out where his welfare is at stake.

It had been thus, with Vivian Standish, but the object of his daring deeds had been his own other self; that never satisfied nature of humanity, which, continually cries for more, that unreasonable element of our existence, that is not content, when we have dipped our trembling hands in the sluggish, sullied waters of sin and shame, to gather the little bright deceptive flower they craved to hold, something that looks so tempting and precious on the dangerous water's edge, but which when gathered becomes offensive, and is cast so recklessly aside. How many of us there are, that sit in moody silence, grieving and wondering over our own ingratitude to ourselves; peevishly grumbling at our moral poverty, scanning with pitying disgust the persistent weakness of our natures, sighing with a hopeless resignation over a miserable destiny of broken resolutions and vain attempts, and wondering when it will all end, and relieve our burdened souls.

Vivian Standish, had become a moral wreck, more by accident than by nature. Phrenologists would scarcely have defined his handsome features as indicative of wickedness in the soul, but the victim of a mistaken vocation, has always been known to carry his propensities to the very worst limit; ending generally when all hope is vain, and amendment an impossibility. Sometimes one does hear of the evil-doer being overtaken in his dark course by the voice of conscience; a warning whisper, from some spirit-like voice, has occasionally stayed the hand of the murderer, the self-destroyer, the robber, or the drunkard; but I fear, it is a more familiar thing, to every one of us, to know, that when a man has once determinedly begun his downward course, it is rarely, he stops at the precipice; if he has risked great things on one occasion, he will hazard greater dangers on many occasions, never waiting, never halting, to think or to regret until he reach the final hazard which is life itself, consequently death itself, and then the awful sequel which is hushed, or whispered in a trembling breath, like a horrible ghost story, the consequences of eternal darkness, and agony, and despair.

* * * * *

The winter set in at Ottawa, the cold north-east winds blew over the bare streets and through the naked trees for days and weeks, and then, the soft, white, noiseless snowflakes stole over the desolate city, making it suddenly as bright and lively and cheerful, as it had been dreary and melancholy before.

December, with snow and cold, and icicles and sleighbells, substituted the lovely "fall," and turned the wearisome scenes of summer remnants, into the gay, sparkling picture of lively winter.

It was December, and Honor Edgeworth's lover had not proposed yet. Henry Rayne had still serious misgivings relative to Honor's real sentiments, which prevented him from encouraging Standish to take the final step. All through the summer and autumn months, Honor and he had been thrown a great deal together, he had given up his occupations elsewhere, and was now permanently established at Ottawa; in the mornings, when Honor drove or walked up town, to do her shopping, she often met him, either lunching at the confectioners, or coming out of the Post Office, or standing aimlessly at the Russell House entrance: invariably, he joined her, carrying all her small parcels, if she walked, or helping her in and out of her tiny phaeton if she drove. Every eye, any way trained in matrimonial calculations had given its knowing wink, at these two, which translated from eye-language means, "they're going it," or "that's a match:" other girls who did their shopping all by themselves, sighed wearily at "some people's luck," and turned their heads purposely aside, to admire some grand display of millinery, or jewellery, or whatever distraction was at hand.

In the evenings, Love's "at home" hour, these two were always together, and if it was not to escort her to some place of entertainment, Vivian whiled the delicious hours away strolling leisurely around the grounds of Mr. Rayne's house by Honor's side—thrown sleepily on some rustic bench beside her, with his well-flavored cigar between his handsome lips, and the dreamiest sort of love looks floating between his half-closed, deeply-fringed lids, muttering half audibly those thrilling little nothings that seem so consistent with pretty ears, and a half-averted, blushing face in the autumn twilight. When the evenings grew too chilly, even with a provokingly becoming wrap and tiny skull cap, perched on the back of her head, Honor and her devoted admirer spent their time within doors, playing, singing, or chatting suspiciously with their feet on the fender. Honor had never thought it necessary to question the propriety of encouraging this intimacy with a man whom she would never love, it seemed quite pleasant to her to have some one who could talk intelligently and make himself generally interesting, always by her—satisfying herself that she might safely measure his sentiments of regard by her own, and, therefore, never dreaming of any serious result from their amusing pastimes.

There are so many girls in Ottawa that like very much having an admirer, an ardent lover even, if he suits their fancy enough to make other girls jealous, or even worthier-minded girls can comfortably endure an intelligent, accomplished young fellow to pay them these snug little attentions for a whole season. There is something in a certain species of the genus girl which quite overcomes her at times, when she feels so lonely and so blue that nothing in all sublime creation can restore her but the soothing odor of a cigar, the deep, earnest accents of a certain smoker of that cigar, and the clasp of the strong, firm hand that has placed that delightful weed between those suggestive lips,—when on a winter evening she steals alone into the drawing room and lowers the vulgar glare of the gas until everything is misty and undefined as her own heart, and then throwing herself on the spacious fauteuil before the grate fire, soars into the world of her imagination, and is happy with her heart's idol for a few dreamy hours, or depositing herself carelessly on a cosy sofa, she throws her arms over her shapely head, and spins away at the cobwebs of her thoughts and wishes, and regrets, but always on the qui vive, listening for a step, a voice, and wondering now and then, with a start, whether it was the very material door-gong that she heard, or only the dim, intangible echo of a wild wish in her agitated heart. Oh! you little group of "teens," there is a day coming! Brush away those filmy cobwebs of your pleasant dreams; they are hiding your reality. Shut out that mass of "tangled sunbeams" that interrupts your future; there is a pall over the heart, now bounding in its untold delight. There are tears in the dreamy, wistful eyes; there is suffering portrayed on the pretty face; the spirit of anguish keeps its steady guard at the threshold of those smiling lips—but—what have I done? Oh! forgive me, youth now tangled in those golden meshes. I unsay the words, mine must not be the tyrant hand to tear away the screen a merciful Father has placed between you and what is to come. No! no! smile and dream and hope and wait on.

One evening, as Henry Rayne lay reclining among his cushions before the glowing coals, Honor and Jean d'Alberg burst in upon him in his solitude, full of fresh, blooming spirits, laughing and feeling numb with cold.

"Here? you selfish old pet," Honor said, running towards him, "toasting your limbs by the fire, so cosily, when your little girl is freezing on the streets, starved and numb!"

The old man leaned back his white head on the velvet upholstering, and looked lovingly into the bright, happy, blushing face of the girl standing behind him, then taking both her little "frozen" hands in his dry, warm ones, he squeezed them tenderly, saying—

"To be sure, you are numb, you lovely little witch. Have you been firing snow-balls, or shovelling snow or what?"

"Most likely," Honor answered with mock dignity, "a young lady aspiring to the wisdom of her twenties is sure to spend her time firing snow-balls against the fence."

"Oh, no of-fence to you, frozen queen," Henry Rayne interrupted, looking shyly up to see how his pun was appreciated.

"Not a bad attempt for a dull mind at all," the girl said laughingly, "don't forget it, and I'll give you a chance to use it again, when there's more appreciation in the room than there is just now."

"Come, come, you little humbug, take off that gigantic sacque, and sit down here; upun my word I won't make any more of those nasty jeu de mots."

"Oh, I see you are a hopeless case," Honor said, sighing heavily, at the same time undoing lazily the great seal fastenings of her seal coat, as he bade her. She then drew out the long pins from her velvet "poke" and removed that becoming article from her head.

"Give them to Jean," Mr. Rayne said, motioning backward, "she will be going up directly."

"It is well she has transferred herself to that place already," Honor replied, "or she would not be too flattered to think that her presence had made such a little impression all the while."

As she delivered this little speech, she touched her dainty fingers to the bell beside her, and when Nanette appeared in the doorway, she gave her her costly bundle of street wear to carry away upstairs, and as the faithful attendant piled them respectfully on her arm, Honor prepared to seat herself beside her guardian, for a "little chat."

"Well, I hope you're ready at last, dear knows it does take a time for you females to get out of your finery," Henry Rayne said in assumed impatience.

"There now, don't grumble out in 'sour grapes' style," Honor replied, playfully, "you can't blame anyone if you did not happen to be a nice young girl, to wear poke bonnets and jerseys, and becoming little nothings—we know you poor unfortunate males are half dead with envy, when you contrast your clumsy suits, every one's the same to look at, with the endless variety of our costumes, but all the same you can't say it's anyone's particular fault that you have all been great grizzly men."

"Well, upon my word," Henry Rayne laughed in astonishment, "I hope you have an idea of your sex—come, stop that silly babble about men pining for a transformation, and sit you down here near me; I want to talk of something more reasonable than that. Surely you're ready now?"

"Yes, quite—oh! but wait one minute—Nanette," she called, balancing herself on her dainty toes, towards the door, "I'll take my handkerchief from my muff, please,—there," as she shook out the dainty scented folds of a lawn handkerchief, "I am quite, quite, quite ready—begin when you like, and end when I like."

She drew over a tiny footstool and sat upon it, and nestled her head on the arm of Henry Rayne's chair. Lovingly he stole his trembling hand over it, and as he toyed with her graceful curls, he began to tell her his little secrets—

"Honor, you've been going out a great deal of late," he began,

"Oh, don't lecture me for always being out late," she interrupted, provokingly.

"Now don't you say another word, little puss, until your elders consent."

"Very well then, cross elder, go on," said she, taking his hand in hers and rubbing it gently up and down her velvet cheek.

"But perhaps you feel like prattling a little, after coming in," he interrupted, half regretfully, "so, let you begin, tell me where you've been this afternoon, and what you saw, and all about it, and when I've shown you by example what a patient listener is, I shall expect a return of courtesy when my turn comes."

"Well, if it isn't just dreadful to have to yield to the caprices of some people," murmured Honor, with pretended resignation, and then glancing reassuringly up at the kind old face above her, she began—

"This afternoon, didn't you know, we went to the matinee—Miss Reid, Mr. Apley, Aunt Jean, Vivian and the charming Miss Edgeworth, all together.

"To the matinee, eh little one? And did you like it?"

"Well, I love the theatre, any way," argued Honor, "and so I liked the performance to-day, it was rather—exalted."

"Exalted, was it?" Henry Rayne said in a listening sort of repetition, "how exalted?"

"Oh, first a love match—vows of fidelity—a wedding—a neglected wife—a husband that flirts—then quarrels, and tears, and rage, and despair, and the other party that is always a handsome man, to sympathize with the afflicted wife, then jealousy, threats and a duel, and the love match all over again."

"Well, well," laughed Mr. Rayne, "that is as well as if I saw it all. I think you take to 'exalted' phases of the drama—don't you, little one?"

"Well, you see," she said, shaking her head wisely, "other people's miseries and misfortunes, seem so romantic and exalted to us—there's the secret; I'm sure there's nothing we girls relish more than the story of some newly-wedded pair that disagree, of a wife who pines in sentimental solitude, or revenges herself in tragic retribution—that is great excitement for us—but amiable as any of us are, I don't think we'd consent to make romance for our girl friends at such a cost as that, do you?"

"Well, I rather hope you would not," Mr. Rayne answered, with a smile.

"How true it is though," Honor continued, "that we are all so much better adapted to bear one another's burdens of life than we are our own, we are always ready to say 'If we were they, we should never have done such and such things in such and such circumstances,' and after all, I do not think that in our own emergencies, we do one whit better, do you?"

"You are right there, child," her guardian answered, reflectively, "under our trying circumstances we always want to do our best, and yet our neighbors cannot help fancying that in our places they could have exercised so much more discretion than we—that is the way we make mistakes in life, attributing force and virtue to ourselves, which could only make themselves manifest were we in other people's shoes."

"Now, you think just like I do, I am so glad, because Vivian didn't, he said he thought other people, at least some other people, always did things infinitely better than he could do them."

"Did he?" queried Mr. Rayne, with a mischievous chuckle, "well, I suppose that those 'some other people' actually can, in his eyes. I wonder who he meant?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Honor, tapping her foot nervously on the shining fender, "but we both agreed that if such a thing happened in real life as was represented on the stage to-day, the man who thus slighted and neglected any woman he had promised to cherish and love, should be punished just as far as justice and humanity could go in punishing him."

"That is certainly true," said Mr, Rayne, "the punishment, in my eyes, should equal the crime, and the crime, I think, is unpardonable—but come now, we've talked enough about these awful things; I want my turn—you see—Honor, this is the fifth of December."

"Yes."

"And Christmas will be in three weeks more."

"I guess I know that," Honor said meaningly.

"Well, I want you to do me a big favor this Christmas."

"Really?" said Honor, in surprise, "What big favor can I do for you?"

"I want you and Jean to organize—"

"What?"

"A splendid, big, grand—"

"Christmas pudding?"

"Not quite—but a 'stunning' ball, a real stylish ball; ask everyone you know; throw the doors wide open and give an entertainment with great eclat. You must empty the drawing-room quite out, have the orchestra engaged, and a menu that will outrival everything. I want a jolly, rattling Christmas merriment that everyone will remember ..."

Honor looked quickly up, and said in a tone of astonishment:

"Well, dear old baby, I hope you have a queer notion at last—why, that would be no end of fuss and worry and trouble."

"No matter," he answered, "get help everywhere for everything. I told you first, because you can coax aunt Jean better than I can, don't 'go back on me' now, after I've confided my little plan to you. I expect a great deal of help from you."

"All right then," said Honor, striking one tightly clenched little hand down on the open palm of the other, "if it costs so much that we will all have to sell out and beg for New Year's, you need not blame me; I'll give you all the help you want, don't fear, but when the fun is over, I hope you won't have too much trouble to help yourself."

"Never mind the consequences," her guardian answered good-humoredly.

And so it was settled that there would be a grand ball at Mr. Rayne's house during Christmas week; the invitations were issued and busy preparations begun by all hands. The long drawing room and library were opened into one, and all their furniture conveyed into other apartments. The dining room and comfortable morning room, or family boudoir, were also opened into one large refreshment room. The little study under the balcony (down which Guy had climbed on the eventful night of his escapade) was fitted up for a tete-a-tete corner, with comfortable arm-chairs, bird cages and sweet smelling plants. Then there were decorations made of palm and flags, and millions of sundry other things to crowd into a little space of time.

Vivian saw little of Honor during these days of endless fuss and bustle, but he appeared satisfied to sit and chat quietly with Henry Rayne, who was unable to share in the general riot and confusion. There seemed to have sprung a strange intimacy between these two men, and this link was no other than Honor Edgeworth, in fact, she was so dear to the heart of her kind guardian that it warmed to anyone who showed an interest in her. One evening as Vivian and Mr. Rayne chatted together in the latter's study, Honor broke in upon them, holding between her dainty hands a steaming bowl of broth, which she commanded Mr. Rayne to "devour there and then." Obediently as a child, he supped the wholesome draught, and when he had drained the last spoonful, she kissed him hurriedly on the brow and bustled out again, smiling pleasantly, and telling her guardian he was "a real good boy."

When the door had closed upon her, Henry Rayne, turning to Vivian, said half sadly.

"She is the sweetest girl under the sun, I think my heart would break without her."

"Then I think you might sympathise more ardently with me," the young man answered, half doggedly, "I am nearly tired of waiting for that opportunity that never comes."

"Don't blame me, boy, before you know," was the serious retort, "I am trying my skill in your cause all this while. It is solely in your interest that I have planned this Christmas festivity. I can imagine no moment more propitious for the pleading of your cause, than one snatched from the confusion and excitement of such an hour, when the heart is made suggestive by strains of music and peals of laughter and sounds of gaiety and gladness everywhere."

"You are right," Vivian said, smiling. "I did not give you credit though, for so much sentimentality."

"It is not that," the old man answered sadly. "No, my dear boy, but, no matter how capricious and fickle time is, it cannot alter the heart. What is love to-day, was love in my day, and for ages before, and will be to the end of time. It is a very universal passion, and is easily aroused. A note of music, a breath, a sigh or a little pressure of the hand may be enough to call it out from its hidden nook within the heart. You can't tell me what it is to love, my boy, nor can I tell you, though we've both passed through the experience, the explicable part is a prominent part, I admit, if we analyse the little creeping sensations of gladness, that a touch of her hand, no matter how inadvertent, or the steady gaze of her deep eyes, could cause us to feel. Why, my dear boy, I am an old man now, but my memory is young yet, and I dwell on this dear page of my past, with the same feelings of gratification that animate you on your first experience. I don't know now, any more than I did then, though I'm an older and a wiser man, what there is in a woman's clear eye, a woman's voice or a woman's hand, to make us shiver and creep, and unman us the way they do; but perhaps 'tis the mystery makes the charm, if so, may it never be unravelled, for a fellow's love days are about the only things which can compensate him for the misery of the rest of his life."

This, contrary to appearances, fell as gall on the heart of Vivian Standish, he who had never loved with a pure, unsullied devotion, grieved to hear of the joys of one who had. It is bad enough, that certain luxuries of life have been denied us, either through our own folly or the still less bitter interference of others. How much worse it becomes when we are forced to listen to the story of their worth, from those who have gained what we have so recklessly lost! Such words as those addressed by Henry Rayne, were perhaps the only ones that could impress the hardened heart of Vivian Standish with a hatred for the crimes and follies of his life.



CHAPTER XXXV.

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 protegee.

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.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

But happy they, the happiest of their kind Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend

—Thomson

Guy Elersley, had long ago abandoned the noctivagent tendencies, that had only saddened and distracted his life, but to-night, as the clock struck nine, he deliberately closed the book he had been reading, with a heavv sigh, lit a cigar, and getting himself into his furs, he strolled noiselessly out, the great doorway of the quiet hotel and commenced an onward journey at a brisk pace. He heeded neither the flood of subdued light, that hung like a veil of hallowed glory over the earth, on this bright Christmas Eve, nor the busy pedestrians, who hurried to and fro, with well-filled baskets for to-morrow's celebrations. He did heed an odd beggar-child who stopped, to hold towards him a Christmas number of the "Free Press," for a penny, or who still more appealingly extended a little bare frozen hand for charity. He had not far to go on this nights' ramble, but he walked thoughtfully along, like one, on a serious errand, the old familiar sights of other days distracted him somewhat, his eyes wandered mechanically over the walls of the little church of St. Alban, the martyr, whose angular spire, stood prominently out in the clear moonlight. A corner away from this, and the glittering roof of St Joseph's Church attracted his gaze, he was passing close by it now, and a strange instinct directed his steps towards it; he pushed open the yielding door, and stood in the streaming moonlight, among vacant pews, and holy stillness. The Christmas decorations were just discernible by the flickering light of the sanctuary lamp, and from the windows and altars of the quiet little church, the faces of hallowed saints looked down in their venerable simplicity, making the moonlight that made visible their holy smiles, sanctified and imposing. Guy Elersley had many qualities, both good and evil, but he was as innocent of church- going, as he was of murder; of that, at least no one had ever yet accused him, nevertheless there was a dormant religious enthusiasm in that young breast, which needed but the touch of the right hand on the yielding chords of a full heart, to call forth the melodious strains of an impromptu chant of praise from the creature to his Creator. The soul of our youth of to-day, resembles in many cases a musical instrument, which stands in its grandeur and magnificence, unopened and untouched, the cobwebs of neglect grow over the elegant framework, the dust of ages cloud its wonderful beauty, because there are no hands to touch its magic strings, and call forth the hidden melody it contains, some day, the silence is broken by hazard, a note has been touched, which repeats and echoes its sweet melancholy, with such an eager pathos, that one regrets the many years of wasted ecstacies, which time has consumed, and which might have brightened a lonely life, if the secret had but been known. To-night, for the first time in his life, the chords of Elersley's heart, almost rusted, from their wearisome rest gave out such a soul-stirring melody, that he wondered himself at his susceptibility, he crept into one of the pews near him, and bowing down his head upon his trembling hands, he burst forth in a series of mental prayer, when he raised his eyes again, it seemed to him that an angel had come, and stolen away every burden of his life a calm, peaceful feeling had crept into his soul, banishing all the fears and anxieties of a moment before, he felt as if in the darkness, a bright star had broken forth, showing him the way to a better and a happier life, and as he pondered, he suddenly remembered that this was Christmas Eve, that in truth to-night a glorious star had risen, which would shed its hallowed light over all Christendom, and bring "Peace on earth to men of good-will."

He walked out of the holy edifice, feeling as he had never felt before in all his life—telling himself how much of life's sweetness he had thrown away in miserable exchange for its bitterness and gall. But though no word of determination or promise formed itself upon his lips, he felt a resolution filling him of future amendment, a desire to seek after the strange sweetness he had experienced to-night, and in this mood he pursued his way.

He too was attracted to-night towards the light and the music and the merry-making of Mr. Rayne's house.

A host of overwhelming recollections swam before his eyes as he neared the place; there, from the gate, he could see the fated balcony which had tempted and facilitated his stealthy exit on that wretched night when he had broken his uncle's stern command.

"It looks festive," he murmurs sadly, opening the gate noiselessly and striding up the frozen pathway, "but why need it pain me so?" he said, as if finishing a soliloquy, which would reproach his relations for so easily renouncing his memory.

Slowly and noiselessly he stole up the crusty walk until he found himself outside the tall French window in the recess under the moonlit balcony. He could hear the strains of music and the peals of merry laughter—bitter mockery at such a moment! He knew that while he suffered in suspense outside, she was the object of much admiration within, that the words of false flatterers charmed her ear, and the smile of pretended devotion gratified her heart. A man can bear much, but as it is in his love that he shows himself strongest, it is also— alas!—in his love that he is weakest. A true woman, then, must never encourage a passion in the heart of a man which she will not share with him to the very end. There are some things in life we can jest about and make trifles of, but we must spare the human heart. There is no jest, no levity appropriate where that is concerned. Not but that hundreds of heart-less beauties have toyed laughingly with such playthings all their lives—they have always done it, they do it still, and will likely continue to do it so long as the world remains what it is; but, all the same, we can never cease to regret that a woman should ever make such a vile mistake, she, whose mission in this life is one of heart, should never stoop to misapply the advantages that a wise Creator has confided to her, and whereby she finds her way directly to people's susceptibilities, to conquer them for a good cause for their sakes, her own sake, and God's.

Guy was sadder than ever to-night, for besides the customary melancholy of his life, he was under the painful influence, and in the very presence of pregnant associations, gone-by days were doubly visible and clear to him under the shadow of this dear old home that he had so recklessly sacrificed.

The snow was carefully swept away from the low, broad steps, and the thick covering of matting was comfortably visible in the moonlight. Guy stood to scan the brilliantly illuminated windows: There were figures gliding here and there through the rooms and corridors, shadows flitted to and fro, little strains of far-off music crept into his ears—nothing definable, certainly, sometimes just one deep note of the bass violin, or a little shrill twittering of a noisy part, but it made his poor heart ache, and it filled him with those unshed tears of smothered emotion that are spilled like gall upon the heart that no one sees. He had been watching for only a few moments, when a grating noise startled him. He slid into the shadow of a broad pillar, which supported the portico, and there stood still and expectant. A little silvery laugh right inside the window went straight to his heart, then followed a word or two in a musical masculine voice, then a strong effort, and yielding to it, the long French window opened with a creak.

Up to this Guy had had some chance of escaping, but now as he narrowed himself into the limits of the shadow cast by the huge pillar, he saw two figures advance and lean against the opposite casements of the open doors. At the same moment the moon sailed out from behind a pile of snowy clouds, and Guy Elersley saw with his greedy eyes—in all her loveliness, in all her dignity, in all her feminine grace—Honor Edgeworth, his heart's long-cherished idol, but she was not alone. Beside her was the tall, stalwart figure of a man in evening dress, whose head was inclined towards her, whose eyes were seeking hers with a tender expression of sentiment in their depths. In a moment Guy had caught the outlines of that face, and instinctively he clutched his hand and bit his lip, for he had recognized Vivian Standish flirting with the girl he loved. Her hand was now in his, and he was drawing her closer to him. The impulse filled Guy to dart forward and level those guilty arms that dared to encircle the sacred form of one so good and pure as she, in their sinful embrace, but he quelled it, determining, at any cost, to hear the issue of this strange rencontre—it would be the verdict upon which hung the life or death of his dearest hopes.

"Honor," he heard Vivian say, "you will surely take cold here in this open window."

"Nonsense," Honor said indignantly, "a fine night like this? I am not so susceptible as you think, nor as fragile a piece as I look."

Still toying distractedly with her little jeweled hand, Vivian continued:

"You may not be susceptible to cold, but you should be to warmth, such as my heart offers you, the heat of love's immortal flame—Honor—can you give me no hope that will make the future worth living for?"

"Surely," she answered seriously, "you have not lived such a worthless life, all these years, as leaves the future a perfect blank for you."

Guy fancied how Standish must have winced uncomfortably at her words, he wondered at the provokingly composed way, in which he answered her.

"It is not that exactly," he said, "though I am not at all surprised that you should think it of me, but, somehow, all the ambitions that have hitherto stimulated me, seem now to have dwindled into a secondary importance, of course, it is nothing to you, that my life has become one long miserable suspense, since destiny has thrown us together, because our little happinesses are no sacrifice in your great eyes, you cannot feel the smallest sympathy for a victim such as I, if it were a little terrier, you had unconsciously wounded, you would take it caressingly in your arms, and make a gentle atonement for your fault, but there is a difference between little terrier pups and human hearts, like mine—"

"Is there?" Honor said with a cutting sarcasm, which delighted Guy's heart, "you really are giving me a piece of information which I should never have gained from my own personal conclusions. But, have we not had enough of this romantic nonsense, Mr Standish? I think they have begun another dance."

"I don't care if they have," the handsome lover cried huskily, clasping Honor's hands passionately, and looking into her face with a sort of hopeless defiance, "I have a word to say, that has been long enough hanging unsaid upon my lips—hear me now—you must—Honor—I love you—and I want you to become my wife."

There was a breathless pause of a second—Guy feared the beatings of his heart would betray him—hungrily he waited to catch the word that would fall from Honor Edgeworth's lips—his rage, his contempt, his indignation, had all subsided during this interval of terrible suspense—he had forgotten for that little moment the depravity of the man before him, he only knew, that in Honor's eyes, this was a dashing, handsome, fascinating young fellow, and that the great crisis of his own life as upon him—one other minute and over the vista of coming years, would have settled a pall of hopeless darkness or a flood of gorgeous sunshine—he listened in smothered breaths, the moon hid herself behind a dark, curling cloud, he could not see now, but he heard the voice, that had filled his heart for years, speak out m firm and clear, though gentle accents.

"Mr. Standish," Honor said, "will you kindly release my hands from your uncomfortable grasp," his hands immediately fell by his sides, "I will not say your precipitation surprises me," she continued coldly, "somehow, nothing, that you could do, would actually surprise me, but I must say it displeases me. One instant, suffices for me, to review my conduct towards you, since the hour of our first meeting, and I can find absolutely nothing therein, which could have encouraged or even sanctioned you, in such a wild plan as this—you cannot be quite yourself to-night—let us forget this unpleasant episode, and return to the ball-room. I regret having come here at all."

"And you think I suppose, that I will pocket my emotions with such a dismissal as this? Are you a tyrant altogether?" he asked in terrible anxiety—then suddenly changing his tone, he appealed, "Honor, you know it is not we who control our destinies, it is not we who create or guide our propensities, is it my fault that I have fallen in love with you? Is it your fault that you are beautiful and loveable and grand? I have striven with a mighty struggle to overcome my passion, but fate had another will. You are a woman—kind, good and true, you profess to understand the human heart; now mine is before you in all its blank misery—be merciful Honor—I will love you and cherish you all my life long—I will be your most devoted friend—I will sacrifice every evil for your sake, and learn from you how to do what is right and good—say you will consent to take me and let me not face the future with despair in my soul—do not raise my hand in temptation, for remember if the heart cannot grant life it can grant death," Honor gasped—Guy opened his eyes, and tried to read the face of this mysterious man. Even Guy, schooled as he was in the catalogue of this unfortunate's crimes, almost pitied him now, and had she been an unsuspecting girl, would most certainly have yielded to his passionate request—he could scarcely expect that Honor would act otherwise, until her voice broke the awful silence and said,—

"No more of this, Mr Standish! You are speaking the language of the wicked, and it is offensive to me; if you value my regard at all, do not strive to lessen it—you have been plain and abrupt with me, let me be the same with you—I can never be more to you than I am at this moment— all the devotion and love you offer me is no temptation, I may tell you though, it most likely will yet flatter a worthier girl than I, your name may yet be gladly shared by a better deserving woman, this I earnestly wish you—but as I can never, positively never, be a degree nearer to you than I am to-night, let us drop this painful subject, and bury it with the other follies of our past."

Vivian Standish stood up straight and grand-looking before Honor, as she spoke the foregoing words. He was, evidently, not prepared for this, he hesitated for one instant, deliberating with himself, and as Guy saw his mortification and disappointment, he could not help feeling that in one of their successes depended the other's misfortune—he began to hope again; he could see the struggle in the face of the rejected suitor, he might have pitied him in the end but for the words of sneering retort that burst from the white lips at this same instant,—

"Well, it was not my luck to be the first—poor me! How could I have the audacity to seek a hand that is waiting for another's grasp? But though you scarcely deserve it, Miss Honor, I will tell you to give up cherishing the forbidden image that fills your heart—a man whom your kind guardian has turned—"

Guy winced, and Honor, raising her bare white arm in the moonlight, in an imposing gesture, cried,

"Stop, sir! How dare you address me thus? I have answered your questions, be kind enough to leave me now, your presence is growing distasteful."

"I knew that would hurt," was the jeering retort, "but bless your little heart, give him up, it is an empty ambition to pine over, he cares no more for you than that pillar there," pointing to the one which concealed Guy, "but then there is more romance about forbidden—"

"Leave me, I command you, before I am provoked to speak my mind as plainly as you deserve to hear it," then, pointing inward, she repeated emphatically, "Go!" and with a broad smile of mock courtesy he bowed before her, kissed his hand insolently to her, and saying,

"You dear little thing, I really half like you," he skipped towards the ball-room, leaving her alone in her excitement.

The noise and merriment had not ceased all this while though this little room was quiet and deserted, whether the guests had suspected who the occupants were, and in consequence kept at a respectable distance; or whether it was just as pleasant to deposit themselves around on the stairways and in the corridors, during the intervals of the dance, I can scarcely tell, but in any case the cosy boudoir was, left entirely to the young hostess and her admirer.

When Vivian had passed into the ball-room again, Honor turned in, and sank into a low chair by the window, she touched one opened half, peevishly with her tiny slipper, to shut out the night air that had begun to chill her; a loose white downy wrap that she had thrown over her shoulders hung negligently to one side, leaving one round white arm bare, her head rested languidly back on the crimson cushions of her chair, the little fringes of pearls that nestled at her bosom on her low bodice, shivered and trembled as she breathed. The gas burned very low within, and with its subdued light only helped to make Honor still more like a spectre than she was. Guy, standing quite close to the panes, could see the gray pallor that had come over her agitated face, her eyes wore that far-off look that is not of earth, as if she were peering through the impenetrable, into mysteries beyond, he leaned forward breathlessly, noiselessly, and looked into the room, she was alone—quite alone, looking pale, and ill, and tired—Oh, how he longed to comfort and protect her! how his heart ached for the right to do so!

"What are men made of, and what puzzling secret tendency is common to every human heart, that such situations as this totally overcome it? What is there in the smile of a woman, in the glance of her eye, in the sound of her voice, to speak so eloquently to man's susceptibilities; why does one woman never see this power in another, nor one man in his fellow-man? Is it a portion of ourselves that we recognize in those we love, that their loss is our wreck and their gain, our fortune? Oh mysterous mysteries of the human soul, ye taunt us and teaze us, but ye are our life, our happiness, and our hope, may we never solve your fascinating secrets, 'tis their obscurity is their charm."

Guy was a strong-minded, unromantic fellow, truly enough, but as he looked in upon the graceful reclining figure of the girl he loved, lying still and thoughtful among the cushions of her chair, his heart was just as inflamed as any victim's of sentiment, his passion filled him, welled up to his very lips so violent, so strong, that it burst its feeble limits and broke out in one resistless word, "Honor" the very sound of his own voice startled Guy, he could have rushed from the spot into oblivion forever, had not the still reclining figure grown suddenly animate, like a spark of electric fluid the word vibrated through her whole frame, she started suddenly up with an expression of blank dismay on her face.

"Honor," he repeated, more calmly this time, "do not be frightened, it is only I."

"You! Guy Elersley," she almost gasped, looking full into his eyes, with a half wistful gaze.

"Yes, Guy Elersley," he answered, a little sadly, "am I intruding?"

"It is not that," she said hesitatingly, "but your presence surprises me so, I thought you were—"

"Miles away, no doubt," he interrupted, "but now that I am really here, am I ever so little welcome?"

"You do not need to ask that," Honor said a little formally, "I think the name of the house is too well-known to necessitate such a question."

"Oh, Honor, you know I do not mean that, why don't you spare me a little?" Then looking anxiously around the room, he asked, "am I safe here, to speak to you without fear of being seen or interrupted?"

"May be not," she faltered. "We had better go outside."

She drew the thick heavy folds of her white wrap over her head and shoulders, and stepped out under the shelter of the portico. When they reached the farthest end she stood, and said in amused surprise—

"What business of terrible importance could have brought you here in this way?"

"I cannot tell you that immediately," he answered seriously, "but you will know it by and bye, Honor," taking her hands in his, and looking meaningly into the deep gray eyes, "will you be vexed if I tell you that I have just overheard your conversation with Vivian Standish?"

"Not half so much as he would be," she answered good-humoredly, "have you been playing eaves-dropping?"

"In a sort of a way, yes, I was startled by you both, while stealing an entrance, and I slid behind that pillar there for protection, and of course had to stop there then."

"If I remember now, Vivian's words compromised you sadly so, for he spoke rather deprecatingly of the regard that pillar had for me, he must have known you were there?"

Guy wondered if Honor was playing coquette with him now, he could not take his eyes off her, she looked so bewitching and lovely, wound up in her soft white wrappings.

"You are jesting now," he said with a sad earnestness, "Honor, if I had come to tell you, that after many months of suspense and sacrifice, I had sought my way back to you, to tell you that, all my hopes and aspirations were incapable of realization without you, that life would never be more than an empty dream, unless I had won you, would you pity me, and believe me, and relieve me?"

As he spoke, he pressed her slender little hands tightly, and looked hungrily, pleadingly into her large dreamy eyes. She looked suddenly up, and their glances met, may be for four or five seconds, their eyes remained in this fixed gaze, then, there were no words required, Guy Elersley had read his answer clearly, unmistakeably; gently, tenderly, lovingly he placed his arms around her, and gathered her into his close embrace, he felt her shiver in his strong arms, then suddenly remembering himself, he asked—

"Are you cold, Honor?"

"Cold! so near your heart as this, is it cold enough to freeze me?"

"Try it," he whispered, "Oh Honor, could it be possible that life holds so much enchantment for me yet, are you going to let yourself be won by such an unworthy admirer as I am, but at least, I can swear to you, that I have never yet loved any creature as I have you," then interrupting himself as it were, he asked teazingly—"By the way, who is this other fellow that Standish accused you of loving?—first, is it true that you did love him?"

Honor fidgeted for a second or so, and then looking shyly up into Guy's face, said—

"I hope you won't be vexed, but I am afraid it is a little true I assure you, I could not help loving him."

"Well, this interests me somewhat," Guy muttered in assumed jealousy. "Who is he, what is he like, what is his name?"

"Oh, he is not very nice," Honor retorted coquettishly, "quite plain, almost homely, I should say, but I can't give his name, he did not give it to me—yet."

"Oh, he didn't eh?" Guy said in a voice of gay enthusiasm, "well have you contemplated what you will do when he offers it to you?"

"Well, I suppose, it would be rude to refuse him, and it is one of those particular cases, where I would not like to make the slightest breach of etiquette."

"How considerate you are. Well, come now, tell me his name—you must?"

"If I must, I must, I suppose, but I am sure he would be vexed, if he knew that I told another man his name, on a moonlight night, in that other man's arms, his name is—," and while she hesitated, she looked mischievously up into his radiant face, and then hung her pretty head half shyly, saying, "Oh, you know—his name is—Jones!" She turned away her blushing face after this, and Guy, who never felt so happy in all his life before, laughed merrily over her little joke, then stooping to the pretty lips, yet sweet with their delicious confession, he stole the first long kiss of love! A very strong mark of his affection, if we believe, like Byron, that "a kisses strength, we think, should be reckoned by its length." Then the merriment died out of each passionate face, Honor's society gravity passed like a quick shadow over her radiant features; placing both her hands on Guy's strong heaving breast, she raised her wistful face to his, and said so seriously,

"Guy—what has passed between us to-night, has formed the crisis of our lives. We have told one another of our loves, and now we must remember, that whatever comes or goes, we belong by a sacred right, exclusively one to another. We have laid bare our lives' secrets, our confidence has been mutual, let us never forget the responsibilities that these avowals entail, I believe we are both happy to-night, and I hope it is only the beginning of a sequel of many such nights and days."

Guy held her beautiful face in his hands and said in loving earnest—

"You have spoken the very words of my own heart, Honor, not until my soul gives up the capacity to love on earth, will I for one instant prove faithless to the pledge I have spoken to-night." As they walked slowly back to the open window, Guy took occasion to ask Honor, whether she had cared in the least degree for Vivian Standish; Honor only looked up smilingly, and said—

"Don't be jealous of the regard I have bestowed upon him, poor fellow, he deserved it all, but after this, I fear, he may not get exactly his due, however, I have done with him for the rest of my life."

"I have a little dealing to do with him," Guy said meaningly, "and the only condition upon which I could have shown him any leniency, would be that you had ever cared for him; I am glad to know you have not."

"I would not say it, to bring him rigid justice at your hands," Honor interrupted, "but still I would rather declare, that I am entirely innocent of ever having had the slightest penchant in that direction."

"I will not prevent you from making that a boast," Guy answered, "but I might have known, that there could never exist any affinity between you two."

They had reached the doorway now, and Guy took the little hand Honor extended within his own—

"Good night," he said, and then rubbing her fingers caressingly between his warm palms, he said reproachfully:

"I have kept you too long, have I not, your hands are so cold?"

"Never mind that," she answered sadly, "that is not the coldness which makes us suffer most, if you never make me feel any other coldness than this, we will be good friends all our lives."

"Trust me," he answered earnestly, "that time will never come, Honor, when my coldness will chill you, the coldness of death will come upon me first."

Then their lips met again, and with a fond good-night, they parted.

Honor stole back to the little room within. She had not been an hour away altogether, and yet it seemed to her she was a dozen whole years older in experience. The night air had brought a ruddy glow into her pale face, and the happy tale of love just gathered from Guy's lips had kindled a light of dazzling beauty in her eyes.

When she returned to the ball room, leaning on the arm of a fussy old bachelor whom she had intercepted on the way, everyone noticed how bright and happy she looked, and the would-be sages shook their heads and envied Vivian Standish in their hearts for having captured such a prize of rare beauty and goodness.

It seemed quite apropos also that Vivian and Honor should evade one another for the rest of the night, this they did, though not in a remarkable way, for Honor was too worldly-wise to betray herself before a ball-room full of people. Their mutual separation gave other young enthusiasts ample chance to amuse themselves with each other.

Vivian Standish moved through the crowd with the same placid, self sufficient smile that he always wore, he was just as interesting and as gay as ever, and to the delight of all the young "fancy free" ladies, sought their society more generously during the rest of this evening at Mr. Rayne's than he had ever done since rumor linked him with Honor Edgeworth.

Miss Mountainhead, who had always had a wild enthusiasm for Vivian Standish without ever being able to form his acquaintance, followed his graceful figure greedily with her calculating eyes through the crowded room to-night. She felt that before this entertainment ended she would have met and spoken to him, and she was beginning to exult therein already. As she sat cogitating thus, a group of young men formed themselves a little in front of her: looking up, she saw Vivian Standish, who was amusing the rest, with some droll quotation. Little did she realize what she was contemplating in this deceptive face, what a perfect practitioner he was in the art of seeming and appearing, commanding his outside as he did, with an ease that did him credit! No one except Honor in all that gay coterie, had ever seen him disconcerted or in a dilemma, even at this very moment, who could tell? not even Miss Mountainhead, who studied him so closely, that he was racked by painful emotions while he was causing merriment to this little group of friends.

It was a splendid opportunity for Miss Gerty's introduction. Bob Apley, her cousin, stood very near her listening to the fun. He knew perfectly well how she longed for this gratification, and yet he would not give it to her now when he had such a golden opportunity. She had waited long enough for him to seek her out, but all in vain she resolved not to let this night pass without satisfying herself.

While she seemingly listened with all cold serenity of countenance to Madame d'Alberg's commonplace remarks, she quietly stretched out her blue satin slipper and proceeded to impress her negligent cousin with the fact that she wanted him to fulfil an old promise of his; not heeding her first gentle reminder, she turned her face with its eager listening expression, very pronouncedly to Madame d'Alberg and repeated the movement with an increased emphasis, resolved to make him notice her before she gave up.

With a curious, puzzled expression on his face, Vivian Standish turned to see who could be paying such marked attentions to his shining "pomps," but his surprise only augmented a hundred-fold on seeing the guilty slipper of a young lady with whom he was not acquainted. She was fanning herself violently as he turned, and without looking back she muttered behind her fan in his direction "can't you introduce me?"

The whole situation burst upon him in a moment, he knew her to be acquainted with every other one in the crowd but himself, and her satin slipper had mistaken him, in its errand, for her "cousin Bob," leaving the impression on his foot. It was too good a situation to forfeit, so taking Bob Apley by the shoulder, he turned him around and said—"Miss Mountainhead, allow me to introduce my friend Mr Apley." The poor girl looked aghast; her confusion left her speechless.

"Is this not the one?" Vivian queried provokingly, "you see I didn't understand from dainty slipper, which friend you could mean."

He had managed that no one heard the joke besides Apley and themselves, but she looked more to be pitied over it than any sea-sick maiden she blushed and stammered, and got confused by turns, until Vivian artfully shifted the topic and asked her for the pleasure of the next dance.

The night sped on, and the Christmas festivities at Mr. Rayne's came to a close. No one was any the wiser of the difference that it had caused between Honor and Vivian, each had succeeded well in deceiving curious eyes, and in puzzling the suspicious, jealous ones who surrounded them.

Amid many glad greetings of "merry Christmas," Honor's guests departed after having enjoyed a most glorious evening in the house of her hospitable guardian.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"The true And steadfast love of years, The kindly, that from childhood grew, The faithful to our tears"

—Mrs Heman

The day after the ball, to the great grief of his devoted household, Henry Rayne was much weaker than usual. His tasty, tempting breakfast went back untouched to the kitchen. Although he had not gone down last night to the scene of gaiety below, his intimate and privileged friends had visited him in his own apartments above, and the reaction of this excitement had assumed alarming features to-day.

Honor hastened to his side the moment she had finished a hurried toilet. She got herself impatiently into a wrapper of dark red cashmere, which fastened at the waist with cords and heavy tassels. A little ruffle of lace bound her throat, and her feet were thrust into dainty slippers, her beautiful hair hung in two long braids down her back, making a perfect picture of her en deshabille. She walked stealthily to the door of the sick room, and seeing the dim eyes of her loved invalid looking at her, wide open, she ventured in. She advanced slowly to the large chair on which he sat, and half-seating herself on the cushioned arm, she threw her arms around his neck and asked in a melancholy voice, "how he felt this morning?"

"They tell me you are not so well, to-day, is that true, dear old pet, when I have come to wish you the brightest, happiest Christmas day that will be spent on earth?"

The dim eyes of the old man turned lovingly on her for a moment, his lips trembled and his voice was suspiciously shaky as he answered,

"Oh, 'tis nothing to dread, my darling; I am only a little weaker, that's all."

"Yes; but that's a great deal," Honor retorted, "and we must try all we can to restore you before to-morrow. You were getting on so nicely. I wonder what can have made the difference."

"Why, you'll quite spoil me," the gentle voice tried to say jestingly, but the eyes closed languidly and the head drooped helplessly back among the cushions. Two great, round tears stood in Honors eyes, she bowed her head over the suffering form, and kissed the clammy brow of the invalid—she tried to say something of encouragment, but great sobs of stifled anguish choked the passage in her throat.

A moment after, the sick man raised his lids wearily and looked on the girl's clouded face.

"My dear little one," he faltered, as he saw the wet lashes and the trembling lips, "I think, after all, you love your old friend a little bit."