Guy felt as if his heart had bounded into his mouth, and had to muster all the moral courage he could to prevent his betraying himself, his tone was a masterpiece of affected indifference when he asked,—
"Do you know what became of this poor victim after she left here?"
"Oh, we did not lose sight of her," said the doctor, in a tone which insinuated that a suspicion of such neglect insulted the dignity of his profession, "by no means. When she had recovered her physical health under our treatment, we had her transferred to 'Beauport,' where she was sure to be well treated—It was as sad a case on the whole, I think, as was ever recorded," mused the would-be wise and experienced physician, and as Guy agreed with him, he strolled lazily towards the door, and in another moment had quitted the inn.
Guy felt himself now to be the direct depository of a great mission, which his conscience bade him fulfil right away. Just as hurriedly and as anxiously as if he were hastening to the death-bed of his nearest relative, Guy took the very next train down to Quebec, resolving silently to spend every exertion he was capable of in this precious duty, or die.
In the fiercest battles of our daily lives, there are only two incitants which can never fail to give our heart a hope, our hope a courage, our courage a strength, and our strength whatever possible success can be wrung from fate under such circumstances; these are, the two great influences of hatred—and of love. There is no strength so fierce, so terrible as the hater's, just as there is no strength so steady, so hopeful, so ambitious, as that which guides the lover's hand. We would do a great many hard and trying things for our love's sake, but those things which the righteous could never do—even for their love—are the better sweets of an active hatred. Love has its limits, but hatred—its only sweetness is its infinity, its boundless freedom, and its endless resources.
There was something of both these stimulants pressing Guy Elersley onward to determined action. All the mighty strength of years of subdued love and sincerest devotion spurred him hopefully on, and all the crushing power of a few days' hatred goaded him on to merciless action. He stowed away that other every-day life of his, and assumed this new phase of his existence dutifully and well. The reward stood in the distance, smiling and beckoning, though 'tis true that his eyes could only discover the familiar outlines of his heart's idol through the doubtful mists of the "possible", but it were as well to spend his pent-up emotions in this way as have them crushed from his heart by a merciless blow of fate, in bitter disappointment.
It would scarcely interest the reader to follow Guy Elersley in his rambles, from the time he passed out of the dingy doorway of the village public-house until he drew up, after a long drive, before the imposing entrance of "Beauport Asylum." The bracing air of the country road that leads to this establishment had had a most beneficial effect on Guy's temperament, and therefore as he alighted from his calèche, his step had resumed something of its old lightness, and his face had lost some of its serious expression.
Guy cogitated sadly as he sauntered quietly up the gravel walks that lead to the main entrance of the edifice. With its air of quiet and peaceful dignity, its beautiful paths, and parterres of blooming flowers, its fountains and grottoes, none could suspect that its melancholy mission was to shelter the noblest work of an Infinite hand in a wrecked and shattered state. There are collected the precious, priceless ruins of the masterpieces of the Artist of Life; an assemblage of ruins over which the most hardened cannot refrain from weeping, were it their very last tear.
Before making any inquiries, Guy passed silently as any ordinary visitor through the different apartments of the "women's ward," carefully studying and scrutinizing any young or beautiful faces that might answer the purpose, he was there to serve: but a pained expression of growing disappointment like despair was settling on his face, as he scanned the last group of quiet, staring countenances that remained to be seen. There was nothing in all that mass of wrecked humanity which satisfied him.
Quiet, reserved women, looked up into his face with a meaningless gaze as he passed from one to another in his eager search, turning their heads stupidly in his direction, as they knitted their well-shaped stockings diligently; other dishevelled, drivelling imbeciles, gathered up in the corners of benches or on the floors, raised their empty eyes to look carelessly out through masses of tumbled hair at him, and then with some half articulate chuckle to clasp their hands tightly around their knees again, and drop their heads into their laps.