The table was perfectly well spread, somewhat in the modern style, which eschews the exhibition of dishes, and presents fruits and flowers. Some lighter provision was there, in the shape of plates of sliced sausages and so forth, but the dishes of resistance were in reserve. There was an unexceptionable array of plate, and crockery, andneatness. The dining-roomwas worthy of the occasion. It is a large and lofty apartment, containing little more furniture than a few convenient couches and chairs. The walls are profusely ornamented with arms of various kinds, hung round tastefully, so that it has the air of a tent or guard-room. There is a small apartment leading into it, which contains a really valuable and curious collection of arms, trophies of victory, and associated with strange legends. It contains many guns, with beautifully inlaid stocks, and several rare and valuable swords of the most costly kind, such as you might seek in vain in the Bezenstein of Constantinople. Among others was one assumed to be the sword of Scanderbeg: strange if the sword, once so fatal to the Turks in political rebellion, should be pursuing its work no less truculently now in religious strife! Our host was seated, waiting our arrival, having adapted his dress to the civilities of life, by rejecting his hussar pelisse, and assuming another vest: he still retained his kid gloves. The waiters were a most formidable group, and such as could hardly have been expected to condescend to a servile office. They were chosen from among his body guard, and were conspicuous for their stature. They wore, even in this hour of security and presumed relaxation, their weighty cuirasses, formed of steel plates that shone brilliantly. Their presence must secure the Vladika against the treachery to which the banquets of the great have been sometimes exposed.
One little trait of the ecclesiastic peeped out in the disposition of the table, which showed that our host had not quite lost theesprit du corps: a clergyman who was of our party, and who had been introduced as a churchman, was placed in the second place of honour after our captain. The party generally arranged themselves at will, and throughout the affair, though there was all due observance, we were not oppressed with ceremony. The dinner went off like most dinners, and our host did the honours with unexceptionable grace. The cookery was in the Turkish style, both as to composition and quantity—and we all voted his wines very good. Champagne flowed abundantly, and unexpectedly. The Vladika talked in a gentle manner of the most ungentle subject. War was the subject on which he descanted with pleasure and judgment, and on which those who sat near him endeavoured to draw him out. But he also proved himself conversant with several subjects, and inquisitive on European affairs. His hostility to the Turks was obviously a matter of deep reality—his hatred was evident in the description which he gave of them as bad, wicked men, who observed no faith, and with whom terms were impossible. The Albanians especially were marked by his animadversions. Our clergyman nearly produced an explosion by an ill-timed remark. As he listened open-mouthed to the right reverend lecturer on war, he was betrayed into an expression of his sense of the incongruity. The brow of the Bishop was for a moment darkened, and his lip curled in contempt, of which, perhaps, the social blunder was not undeserving. "And would not you fight," said he, "if you were attacked by pirates?" The wrath of such a man was to be deprecated. It would have been awkward to see the head of our companion decorating the fatal white tower, and a nod to one of the martial waiters would have done the business. We changed the subject, and asked what was the Montenegro flag? "The cross," said he, "as befits; what else should Christians carry against infidels?" We ventured to inquire whether he, on occasion, wore the robes, and executed the office of bishop, as we had seen a portrait of him in the episcopal robes. "Very seldom," he told us: "and that only of necessity." He excused the practice of exposing the heads on the tower by the plea of necessity. It was necessary for the people, who were accustomed to the spectacle, and whose zeal demanded and was enlivened by the visible incentive. He gave us the account of a visit paid to him by the only lady who has penetrated thus far. He was at the time in the field, engaged in active operations against the enemy, and the lady, for the sake of an interview, ventured even within range of the Turkish battery. He expressed his astonishment that a lady should venture into such a scene, and askedher what could have induced her so to peril her life. "Curiosity," said the lady: "I am an Englishwoman;" and this fact of her nationality seems quite to have satisfied him. She farther won his admiration by partaking of lunch coolly, under only partial shelter from the surrounding danger.
The most picturesque part of our day's experience was the evening assembly. Between the lights we sallied forth, headed by the chief, to look about us. For our amusement he made the people exhibit their prowess in jumping, which was something marvellous. The wonder was enhanced by the comparison of Frank activity which our Italian friend insisted on affording. But Bacchus, who inspirited to the attempt, could not invigorate to the execution; and the good-natured barbarians were amused at the puny effort which set off their own achievements. After showing us the neighbouring lands, the Vladika conducted us back to the palace, where we were promised the spectacle of a Montenegro soirée. It seems that custom has established a public reception of evenings, and that any person may at this time attend without invitation. The whole thing put one in mind of Donald Bean Lean's cavern, or rather, perhaps, of Ali Baba. The picturesque ornaments of the walls waxed romantic in the lamp-light; and costumes of many sorts were moving about, or grouped in the chamber. We were invited to play at different games that were going on, but preferred to remain quiet in corners, where we enjoyed pipes and coffee, and observed the group. Among the servants was a Greek, for whom it might have been supposed that his own country would have been sufficiently lawless. The body-guard who, during dinner, had acted as servants, were now gentlemen; and very splendid gentlemen they made. The universal passion of gaming is not without a place here; it occupied the greater part of the company. The Vladika sat smoking, overlooking the noisy group, and talking with our captain. There were some who did not lay aside their arms even in this hour and place—one big fellow was pointed out to me who would not stir from one room to another unarmed; so ever present to his fancy was the idea of the Turks.
Our host throughout the evening maintained the character of a hospitable and dignified entertainer; comporting himself with that due admixture of conscious dignity and affability, which seems necessary to the courtesy of princes. He occasionally addressed himself to one or other of us, and always seemed to answer with pleasure the questions that we ventured to put to him. It was with reluctance that we took our leave. The night passed comfortably at our several locandas, and not one of us had to speak in the morning of those wretched vermin that plague the Mediterranean. A capital breakfast put us in condition for an early start, and the hospitable spirit of the Vladika was manifested in the refusal of the landladies to produce any bill. With difficulty we managed to press on them a present. The Vladika, attended by his former suite, accompanied our departure, which was honoured with the ceremonies that had marked our entrance. He did not leave us till arrived at the spot where the day before we had met him.
As we halted here, and dismounted for a moment, the Vladika took from an attendant a specimen of their guns, with inlaid stocks, and with graceful action presented it to the captain as a memorial of his visit.
The whole party remounted. The Vladika waved to us his parting salute. "Farewell, gentlemen; remember Montenegro!"
I resolvedto seek Rupert Sinclair no more, and I kept my word with cruel fidelity. But what could I do? Had I not seen him with my own eyes—had I not passed within a few feet of him, and beheld him, to my indignation and bitter regret, avoiding his house, sneaking basely from it, and retreating into the next street, because that house contained his wife and her paramour? Yes—paramour!I disbelieved the world no longer. There could be no doubt of the fact. True, it was incomprehensible—as incomprehensible as terrible! Rupert Sinclair, pure, sensitive, high-minded, and incorrupt, was incapable of any act branded by dishonour, and yet no amount of dishonour could be greater than that attached to the conduct which I had heard of and then witnessed. So it was—a frightful anomaly! a hideous discrepancy! Such as we hear of from time to time, and are found within the experience of every man, unhinging his belief, giving the lie to virtue, staggering the fixed notions of the confiding young, and confirming the dark conclusions of cold and incredulous age.
I hated London. The very air impure with the weight of the wickedness which I knew it to contain; and I resolved to quit the scene without delay. As for the mansion in Grosvenor Square, and its aristocratic inhabitants, I had never visited then with my own free will, or for my own profit and advantage: I forsook them without a sigh. For Rupert's sake I had submitted to insult from the overbearing lackeys of Railton House, and suffered the arrogance of the proud and imbecile lord himself. Much more I could have borne gladly and cheerfully to have secured his happiness, and to have felt that he was still as pure as I had known him in his youth.
To say that my suspicions were confirmed by public rumour, is to say nothing. The visits of Lord Minden were soon spoken of with a sneer and a grin by every one who could derive the smallest satisfaction from the follies and misfortunes of one who had borne himself too loftily in his prosperity to be spared in the hour of his trial. The fact, promulgated, spread like wildfire. The once fashionable and envied abode became deserted. There was a blot upon the door, which, like the plague-cross, scared even the most reckless and the boldest. The ambitious father lost sight of his ambition in the degradation that threatened his high name; and the half-conscientious, half-worldly mother forgot the instincts of her nature in the tingling consciousness of what the world would say. Rupert was left alone with the wife of his choice, the woman for whom he had sacrificed all—fortune, station, reputation—and for whom he was yet ready to lay down his life. Cruel fascination! fearful sorcery!
London was no place for such a man. Urged as much by the battling emotions of his own mind as by the intreaties of his wife, he determined to leave it for ever. And in truth the time had arrived. Inextricably involved, he could no longer remain with safety within reach of the strong arm of the law. His debts stared him in the face at every turn; creditors were clamorous and threatening; the horrible fact had been conveyed from the lips of serving-men to the ears of hungry tradesmen, who saw in the announcement nothing but peril to the accounts which they had been so anxious to run up, and now were equally sedulous in keeping down. It had always been known that Rupert Sinclair was not a rich man; it soon was understood that he was also a forsaken one. One morning three disreputable ill-looking characters were seen walking before the house of Mr Sinclair. When they first approached it, there was a sort of distant respect in their air very foreign to their looksand dress, which might indeed have been the result of their mysterious occupation, and no real respect at all. As they proceeded in their promenade, became familiar with the place, and attracted observation, their confidence increased, their respect retreated, and their natural hideous vulgarity shone forth. They whistled, laughed, made merry with the gentleman out of livery next door, and established a confidential communication with the housemaid over the way. Shortly one separated from the rest—turned into the mews at the corner of the street, and immediately returned with a bench that he had borrowed at a public-house. His companions hailed him with a cheer—the bench was placed before the door of Sinclair's house; the worthies sat and smoked, sang ribald songs, and uttered filthy jokes. A crowd collected, and the tale was told. Rupert had fled the country; the followers of a sheriff's officer had barricadoed his once splendid home, and, Cerberus-like, were guarding the entrance into wretchedness and gloom.
Heaven knows! there was little feeling in Lord Railton. Some, as I have already intimated, still existed in the bosom of his wife, whom providence had made mother to save her from an all-engrossing selfishness; but to do the old lord justice, he was shaken to the heart by the accumulated misfortunes of his child—not that he regarded those misfortunes in any other light than as bringing discredit on himself, and blasting the good name which it had been the boast of his life to uphold and keep clear of all attaint. But this bastard sympathy was sufficient to unman and crush him. He avoided the society of men, and disconnected himself from all public business. Twenty years seemed added to his life when he walked abroad with his head turned towards the earth, as though it were ashamed to confront the public gaze; the furrows of eighty winters were suddenly ploughed into a cheek that no harsh instrument had ever before impaired or visited. In his maturity he was called upon to pay the penalty of a life spent in royal and luxurious ease. He had borne no burden in his youth. It came upon him like an avalanche in the hour of his decline. It is not the strong mind that gives way in the fiery contest of life; the weakest vessel has the least resistance. About six months after Rupert had quitted England, slight eccentricities in the conduct of Lord Railton attracted the notice of his lordship's medical attendant, who communicated his suspicions to Lady Railton, and frightened her beyond all expression with hints at lunacy. Change of air and scene were recommended—a visit to Paris—to the German baths—any where away from England and the scene of trouble. The unhappy Lady Railton made her preparations in a day. Before any body had time to suspect the cause of the removal, the family was off, and the house in Grosvenor Square shut up.
They travelled to Wiesbaden, two servants only accompanied them, and a physician who had charge of his lordship, and towards whom her ladyship was far less patronising and condescending than she had been to the tutor of her son. If misfortune had not elevated her character, it had somewhat chastened her spirit, and taught her the dependency of man upon his fellow man, in spite of the flimsy barriers set up by vanity and pride. Lord Railton was already an altered man when he reached the capital of Nassau. The separation from every object that could give him pain had at once dispelled the clouds that pressed upon his mind; and the cheerful excitement of the journey given vigour and elasticity to his spirit. He enjoyed life again; and his faculties, mental and physical, were restored to him uninjured. Lady Railton would have wept with joy had she been another woman. As it was, she rejoiced amazingly.
The first day in Wiesbaden was an eventful one. Dinner was ordered, and his lordship was dressing, whilst Lady Railton amused herself in the charming gardens of the hotel at which they stopped. Another visitor was there—a lady younger than herself, but far more beautiful, and apparently of equal rank. One look proclaimed the stranger for a countrywoman, a second was sufficient for an introduction.
"This is a lovely spot," said LadyRailton, whose generally silent tongue was easily betrayed into activity on this auspicious morning.
"Do you think so?" answered the stranger, laughing as she spoke; "you are a new comer, and the loveliness of the spot is not yet darkened by the ugliness of the creatures who thrive upon it. Wait awhile."
"You have been here some time?" continued Lady Railton, inquiringly.
"Ja wohl!" replied the other, mimicking the accent of the German.
"And the loveliness has disappeared?"
"Ja wohl!" repeated the other with a shrug.
"You speak their language, I perceive?" said Lady Railton.
"I can say 'Ja wohl,' 'Brod,' and 'Guten morgen'—not another syllable. I was entrapped into those; but not another step will I advance. I take my stand at 'Guten morgen.'"
Lady Railton smiled.
"'Tis not a sweet language, I believe," she continued.
"As sweet as the people, believe me, who are the uncleanest race in Christendom. You will say so when you have passed three months at Wiesbaden."
"I have no hope of so prolonged a stay—rather, you would have me say 'no fear.'"
"Oh! pray remain and judge for yourself. Begin with his Highness the Duke, who dines every day with his subjects at thetable-d'hôteof this hotel, and end with that extraordinary domestic animal, half little boy half old man, who fidgets like a gnome about him at the table. Enter into what they call the gaieties of this horrid place—eat their food—drink their wine—look at the gambling—talk to their greasy aristocracy—listen to their growl—contemplate the universal dirt, and form your own conclusions."
"I presume you are about to quit this happy valley!"
The lovely stranger shook her head.
"Ah no! Fate and—worse than fate!—a self-willed husband!"
"I perceive. He likes Germany, and you"——
"Submit!" said the other, finishing the sentence with the gentlest sigh of resignation.
"You have amusements here?"
"Oh, a mine of them! We are the fiercest gamesters in the world; we eat like giants; we smoke like furnaces, and dance like bears."
The ladies had reached the open window of thesaalthat led into the garden. They stopped. The dinner of one was about to be served up; the husband of the other was waiting to accompany her to the public gardens. They bowed and parted. A concert was held at the hotel that evening. The chief singers of the opera at Berlin, passing through the town, had signified their benign intention to enlighten the worthy denizens of Nassau, on the subject of "high art" in music. The applications for admission were immense. The chief seats were reserved by mine host, "as in private duty bound," for the visitors at his hotel; and the chiefest, as politeness and interest dictated, for the rich and titled foreigners: every Englishman being rich and noble in a continental inn.
The young physician recommended his lordship by all means to visit the concert. He had recommended nothing but enjoyment since they quitted London. His lordship's case was one, he said, requiring amusement; he might have added that his own case was another—requiring, further, a noble lord to pay for it. Lord Railton obeyed his medical adviser always when he suggested nothing disagreeable. Lady Railton was not sorry to have a view of German life, and to meet again her gay and fascinating beauty of the morning.
The hall was crowded; and at an early hour of the evening the lovely stranger was established in the seat reserved for her amidst "the favoured guests." Her husband was with her, a tall pale man, troubled with grief or sickness, very young, very handsome, but the converse of his wife, who looked as blooming as a summer's morn, as brilliant and as happy. Not the faintest shadow of a smile swept across his pallid face. Laughter beamed eternally from her eyes, and was enthroned in dimples on her cheek. He was silent and reserved, always communing with himself, and utterly regardless of the doings of the world about him.Shehad eyes,ears, tongue, thought, feeling, sympathy only for the busy multitude, and seemed to care to commune with herself as little—as with her husband. A movement in the neighbourhood announced the arrival of fresh comers. Lord Railton appeared somewhat flustered and agitated by suddenly finding himself in a great company, and all the more nervous from a suspicion that he was regarded as insane by every one he passed: then came the young physician, as if from a bandbox, with a white cravat, white gloves, white waistcoat, white face, and a black suit of clothes, supporting his lordship, smiling upon him obsequiously, and giving him professional encouragement and approval: and lastly stalked her ladyship herself with the airs and graces of a fashionable duchess, fresh as imported, and looking down upon mankind with touching superciliousness and most amiable contempt. She caught sight of her friend of the morning on her passage, and they exchanged bland looks of recognition.
The youthful husband had taken no notice of the fresh arrival. Absorbed by his peculiar cares, whatever they might be, he sat perfectly still, unmoved by the preparations of the actors and the busy hum of the spectators. His head was bent towards the earth, to which he seemed fast travelling, and which, to all appearances, would prove a happier home for him than that he found upon its surface. Two or three songs had been given with wonderful effect. Every one had been encored, andbouquetshad already been thrown to theprima donnaof the Berlin opera. Never had Wiesbaden known such delight. Mine host, who stood at the entrance of thesaal, perspiring with mingled pride and agitation, contemplated the scene with a joy that knew no bounds. He was very happy. Like Sir Giles Overreach, he was "joy all over." The young physician had just put an eye-glass to an eye that had some difficulty in screwing it on, with the intention of killing a young and pretty vocalist with one irresistible glance, when he felt his arm clenched by his patient with a passionate vigour that not only seriously damaged his intentions with respect to the young singer, but fairly threw him from his equilibrium. He turned round, and saw the unhappy nobleman, as he believed, in an epileptic fit. His eyes were fixed—his lip trembling—his whole frame quivering. His hand still grasped the arm of the physician, and grasped it the firmer the more the practitioner struggled for release. There was a shudder, a cry—the old man fell—and would have dropped to the floor had he not been caught by the expert and much alarmed physician. A scene ensued. The singer stopped, the audience rose—the fainting man was raised and carried out. The noise had attracted the notice of one who needed an extraordinary provocation to rouse him from his accustomed lethargy. As the invalid passed him, the husband of the merry beauty cast one glance towards his deathlike countenance. It was enough. No, not enough. Another directed to the unhappy lady who followed the stricken lord, was far more terrible, more poignant and acute. It sent a thousand daggers to his heart, every one wounding, hacking, killing. He sunk upon his seat, and covered his streaming eyes with wan and bloodless hands.
"Rupert!" said Elinor, whispering in his ear, "you are ill—let us go."
"Elinor, it's he, it's he!" he stammered in the same voice.
"Who?"
"My father!"
"And that lady?"
"My mother!"
"Good heaven! Lady Railton!"
"I have killed him," continued Rupert. "I have killed him!"
Before the confusion consequent upon the removal of Lord Railton had subsided, Elinor, with presence of mind, rose from her seat, and implored her husband to do the like. He obeyed, hardly knowing what he did, and followed her instinctively. Like a woman possessed, she ran from the scene, and did not stop until she reached her own apartments. Rupert kept at her side, not daring to look up. When he arrived at his room, he was not aware that he had passed his parents in his progress—that the eyes of his wife and his mother had again encountered,and that the sternest scowl of the latter had been met by the most indignant scorn of the former. To this pass had arrived the pleasant acquaintance established three hours before in the hotel garden.
Whilst Elinor Sinclair slept that melancholy night, Rupert watched at his father's door. He believed him to be mortally ill, and he accused himself in his sorrow of the fearful crime of parricide. He had made frequent inquiries, and to all one answer had been returned. The noble lord was still unconscious: her ladyship could not be seen. It was not until the dawn of morning that a more favourable bulletin was issued, and his lordship pronounced once more sensible and out of danger. Rupert withdrew—not to rest, but to write a few hurried lines to his mother—begging one interview, and conjuring her to concede it, even if she afterwards resolved to see him no more. The interview was granted.
It led to no good result. Another opportunity for reconciliation and peace came only to be rejected. It availed little that Providence provided the elements of happiness, whilst obstinacy and wilful pride refused to combine them for any useful end. Lady Railton loved her son with the fondness of a mother. Life, too, had charms for so worldly a soul as hers; yet the son could be sacrificed, and life itself parted with, ere the lofty spirit bend, and vindictive hatred give place to meek and gentle mercy. The meeting was very painful. Lady Railton wept bitter tears as she beheld the wreck that stood before her—the care-worn remains of a form that was once so fair to look at—so grateful to admire; but she stood inflexible. She might have asked every thing of her son which he might honourably part with, and still her desires have fallen short of the sacrifices he was prepared to offer for the misery he had caused. She had butONErequest to make—it was the condition of her pardon—but it was also the test of his integrity and manhood.
He must part with the woman he had made his wife!
The evening of the day found Rupert Sinclair and his wife on the road from Wiesbaden, and his parents still sojourners at the hotel.
Rupert had not told Elinor of the sum that had been asked for the forgiveness of a mother he loved—the friendship of a father at whose bed-side nature and duty summoned him with appeals so difficult to resist. He would not grieve her joyous spirit by the sad announcement. He had paid the price of affection, not cheerfully—not triumphantly—but with a breaking and a tortured heart. He knew the treasure to be costly: he would have secured it had it been twice as dear. They arrived at Frankfort.
"And whither now?" asked Elinor, almost as soon as they alighted.
"Here for the present, dearest," answered Rupert. "To-morrow whither you will."
"Thank heaven for a safe deliverance from the Duke of Nassau!" exclaimed the wife. "Well, Rupert, say no more that I am mistress of your actions. I have begged for months to be released from that dungeon, but ineffectually. This morning a syllable from the lips of another has moved you to do what was refused to my long prayers."
Rupert answered not.
"To-morrow, then, to Paris?" coaxingly inquired the wife.
A shadow passed across the countenance of the husband.
"Wherefore to Paris?" he answered. "The world is wide enough. Choose an abiding-place and a home any where but in Paris."
"And why not there?" said Elinor, with vexation. "Any where but where I wish. It is always so—it has always been so."
"No, Elinor," said Rupert calmly—"not always. You do us both injustice."
"I have no pleasure," she continued, "amongst these dull and addle-headed people—who smoke and eat themselves into a heaviness that's insupportable. But Paris is too gay for your grave spirit, Rupert; and to sacrifice your comfort to my happiness would be more than I have any right to hope for or to ask."
Sinclair answered not again. Reproach had never yet escaped his lips:it was not suffered to pass now. How little knew the wife of the sacrifices which had already been wrung from that fond and faithful bosom: and which it was still disposed to make, could it but have secured the happiness of one or both!
Is it necessary to add, that within a week the restless and wandering pair found themselves in the giddy capital of France! Sinclair, as in every thing, gave way before the well-directed and irresistible attacks of one whose wishes, on ordinary occasions, he was too eager to forestall. His strong objections to a residence in Paris were as nothing against the opposition of the wife resolved to gain her point and vanquish. Paris was odious to him on many grounds. It was paradise to a woman created for pleasure—alive and herself only when absorbed in the mad pursuit of pleasure. Sinclair regarded a sojourn in Paris as fatal to the repose which he yearned to secure: his wife looked upon it as a guarantee for the joyous excitement which her temperament rendered essential to existence. General Travis was in Paris; so was the Earl of Minden; so were many other stanch allies and friends of the lady, who had so suddenly found herself deprived of friends and supporters in the very height of her dominion and triumph. Sinclair had no desire to meet with any of these firm adherents; but, on the contrary, much reason to avoid them. He made one ineffectual struggle, and as usual—submitted to direction.
If the lady had passed intoxicating days in London, she led madder ones in France. Again she became the heroine and queen of a brilliant circle, the admired of all admirers, the mistress of a hundred willing and too obedient slaves. Nothing could surpass the witchery of her power: nothing exceed the art by which she raised herself to a proud eminence, and secured her footing. The arch smile, the clever volubility, the melting eye, the lovely cheek, the incomparable form, all united to claim and to compel the admiration which few were slow to render. Elinor had been slighted in England: she revenged herself in France. She had been deserted—forsaken by her own: she was the more intent upon the glowing praise and worship of the stranger. Crowds flocked around her, confessing her supremacy: and whilst women envied and men admired, Rupert Sinclair shrunk from publicity with a heart that was near to breaking—and a soul oppressed beyond the power of relief.
A gleam of sunshine stole upon Rupert Sinclair in the midst of his gloom and disappointment. Elinor gave promise of becoming a mother. He had prayed for this event; for he looked to it as the only means of restoring to him affections estranged and openly transferred to an unfeeling world. The volatile and inconsiderate spirit, which no expostulation or entreaties of his might tame, would surely be subdued by the new and tender ties so powerful always in riveting woman's heart to duty. His own character altered as the hour approached which must confer upon him a new delight as well as an additional anxiety. He became a more cheerful and a happier man: his brow relaxed; his face no longer bore upon it the expression of a settled sorrow and an abiding disappointment. He walked more erect, less shy, grew more active, less contemplative and reserved. Months passed away, quickly, if not altogether happily, and Elinor Sinclair gave birth to a daughter.
Rupert had not judged correctly. However pleasing may be the sacred influence of a child upon the disposition and conduct of a mother in the majority of instances, it was entirely wanting here. Love of distinction, of conquest, of admiration, had left no room in the bosom of Elinor Sinclair for the love of offspring, which Rupert fondly hoped would save his partner from utter worldliness, and himself from final wretchedness. To receive the child from heaven, and to make it over for its earliest nourishment and care to strange cold hands, were almost one and the same act. The pains of nature were not assuaged by the mother's rejoicings: the pride of the father found no response in the heart of his partner. The bitter trial of the season past—returning strength vouchsafed—and the presence of the stranger was almost forgotten in thebrilliancy of the scene to which the mother returned with a whettened appetite and a keener relish.
Far different the father! The fountain of love which welled in his devoted breast met with no check as it poured forth freely and generously towards the innocent and lovely stranger, that had come like a promise and a hope to his heart. Here he might feast his eyes without a pang: here bestow the full warmth of his affection, without the fear of repulse or the torture of doubt. His home became a temple—one small but darling room an altar—his daughter, a divinity. He eschewed the glittering assemblies in which his wife still dazzled most, and grew into a hermit at the cradle of his child. It was a fond and passionate love that he indulged there—one that absorbed and sustained his being—that gave him energy when his soul was spent, and administered consolation in the bitterest hour of his sad loneliness—the bitterest he had known as yet.
I have said that Lord Minden was in Paris when Sinclair and his wife arrived there. The visits of this nobleman to the house of Rupert in London, and the strange conduct of Rupert himself in connexion with those visits, had helped largely to drive the unfortunate pair from their native country. Still those visits were renewed in the French capital, and the conduct of Sinclair lost none of its singularity. The Parisians were not so scandalized as their neighbours across the water by the marked attentions of his lordship to this unrivalled beauty. Nobody could be blind to the conduct of Lord Minden, yet nobody seemed distressed or felt morally injured by the constant contemplation of it. If the husband thought proper to approve, it was surely no man's business to be vexed or angry. Mr Sinclair was a good easy gentleman, evidently vain of his wife's attractions, and of his lordship's great appreciation of them. His wife was worshipped, and the fool was flattered. But was this all? Did he simply look on, or was he basely conniving at his own dishonour? In England public opinion had decided in favour of the latter supposition; and public feeling, outraged by such flagrant wickedness, had thrust the culprits, as they deserved, from the soil which had given them birth, and which they shamefully polluted.
Nearly two years had elapsed, and the exiles were still in the fascinating city to which the ill-fated Elinor had carried her too easily-led husband. The time had passed swiftly enough. Elinor had but one occupation—the pursuits of pleasure. Sinclair had only one—the care of his daughter. He had bestowed a mother's tenderness upon the neglected offspring, and watched its young existence with a jealous anxiety that knew no rest—and not in vain. The budding creature had learned to know its patient nurse, and to love him better than all its little world. She could walk, and prattle in her way, and her throne was upon her father's lap. She could pronounce his name; she loved to speak it;—she could distinguish his eager footstep; she loved to hear it. Rupert was born for this. To love and to be loved with the truth, simplicity, and power of childhood, was the exigency of his being and the condition of his happiness. Both were satisfied—yet he was not happy.
It was a winter's evening. For a wonder, Elinor was at home: She had not been well during the day, and had declared her intention of spending the evening with her child and husband—rare indulgence! The sacrifice had cost her something, for she was out of spirits and ill at ease in her new character. Her husband sat lovingly at her side—his arm about her waist—his gleeful eye resting upon the lovely child that played and clung about his feet.
[And this man was a party to his own dishonour! a common pandar! the seller of yonder wife's virtue, the destroyer of yonder child's whole life of peace! Reader, believe it not!—against conviction, against the world, believe it not!]
"To-morrow, Elinor," said Sinclair musingly, "is your birthday. Had you forgotten it?"
Elinor turned pale. Why, I know not.
"Yes," she answered hurriedly, "I had. Itismy birthday."
"We must pass the day together: we will go into the country. Little Alice shall be of the party, and shallbe taught to drink her mamma's health. Won't you, Alice?"
The child heard its name spoken by familiar lips, and laughed.
"Will Lord Minden, dear, be back? He shall accompany us."
"He will not," said Elinor, trembling with illness.
"More's the pity," replied Rupert. "Alice will hardly be happy for a day without Lord Minden. She has cried for him once or twice already. But you are ill, dearest. Go to rest."
"Not yet," said Elinor, "I shall be better soon. Come, Alice, to mamma."
It was an unwonted summons, and the child stared. She had seldom been invited to her mother's arms; and the visits, when made, were generally of short duration. There seemed some heart in Elinor to-night. Rupert observed it. He caught the child up quickly, placed her in her mother's lap, and kissed them both.
In the act, a tear—a mingled drop of bitterness and joy—started to his eye and lingered there.
Strange contrast! His face suddenly beamed with new-born delight: hers was as pale as death.
"Is she not lovely, Elinor?" asked Rupert, looking on them both with pride.
"Very!" was the laconic and scarce audible answer; and the child was put aside again.
"Elinor," said Sinclair, with unusual animation, "rest assured this precious gift of Heaven is sent to us for good; our days of trouble are numbered. Peace and true enjoyment are promised in that brow."
A slight involuntary shudder thrilled the frame of the wife, as she disengaged herself from her husband's embrace. She rose to retire.
"I will go to my pillow," she said. "You are right. I need rest. Good-night!"
Her words were hurried. There was a wildness about her eye that denoted malady of the mind rather than of body. Rupert detained her.
"You shall have advice, dearest," said he. "I will go myself"——
"No, no, no," she exclaimed, interrupting him; "I beseech you. Suffer me to retire. In the morning you will be glad that you have spared yourself the trouble. I am not worthy of it; good-night!"
"Not worthy, Elinor!"
"Not ill enough, I mean. Rupert, good-night."
Sinclair folded his wife in his arms, and spoke a few words of comfort and encouragement. Had he been a quick observer, he would have marked how, almost involuntarily, she recoiled from his embrace, and avoided his endearments.
She lingered for a moment at the door.
"Shall Alice go with you?" inquired the husband.
"No. I will send for her; let her wait with you. Good-night, Alice!"
"Nay; why good-night? You will see her again."
"Yes," answered Elinor, still lingering. The child looked towards her mother with surprise. Elinor caught her eye, and suddenly advanced to her. She took the bewildered child in her arms, and kissed it passionately. The next moment she had quitted the apartment.
New feelings, of joy as much as of sorrow, possessed the soul of Rupert Sinclair as he sat with his little darling, reflecting upon the singular conduct of the dear one who had quitted them. It found an easy solution in his ardent and forgiving breast. That which he had a thousand times prophesied, had eventually come to pass. Themotherhad been checked in her giddy career, when thewifehad proved herself unequal to the sacrifice. In the mental suffering of his partner, Rupert saw only sorrow for the past, bitter repentance, and a blest promise of amendment. He would not interfere with her sacred grief; but, from his heart, he thanked God for the mercy that had been vouchsafed him, and acknowledged the justice of the trials through which he had hitherto passed. And there he sat and dreamed. Visions ascended and descended. He saw himself away from the vice and dissipation of the city into which he had been dragged. A quiet cottage in the heart of England was his chosen dwelling-place; a happy smiling mother, happy only in her domestic paradise, beamed upon him; anda lovely child, lovelier as she grew to girlhood, sat at his side, even as the infant stood whilst he dreamed on; an aged pair were present, the most contented of the group, looking upon the picture with a calm and grateful satisfaction.
For a full hour he sat lost in his reverie; his glowing heart relieved only by his swelling tears.
The child grew impatient to depart. Why had Elinor not sent for her?
He summoned a servant, and bade her take the little Alice to her mother's room. Thither she was carried—to the room, not to the mother.
The mother had quitted the room, the house, the husband—for ever!
A broken-hearted man quitted Paris at midnight. The damning intelligence had been conveyed to him by one who was cognisant of the whole affair, who had helped to his disgrace, but whose bribe had not been sufficient to secure fidelity.Elinor Sinclair had eloped with the Earl of Minden.Flattered by his lordship's attention, dazzled by his amazing wealth, impatient of the limits which her own poverty placed to her extravagance, dissatisfied with the mild tenor of her husband's life, she had finally broken the link which at any time had so loosely united her to the man, not of her heart or her choice, but of her ambition.
She had fled without remorse, without a pang, worthy of the name. Who shall describe the astonishment of the aggrieved Rupert?—his disappointment, his torture! He was thunderstruck, stunned; but his resolution was quickly formed. The pair had started southwards. Sinclair resolved to follow them. For the first time in his life he was visited with a desire for vengeance, and he burned till it was gratified. Blood only could wash away the stain his honour had received, the injury his soul had suffered—and it should be shed. He grew mad with the idea. He who had never injured mortal man, who was all tenderness and meekness, long-suffering, and patient as woman, suddenly became, in the depth and by the power of his affliction, vindictive and thirsty for his brother's life. Within two hours from the period of the accursed discovery, all his preparations were made, and he was on the track. He had called upon a friend; explained to him his wrong; and secured him for a companion and adviser in the pursuit. He took into his temporary service the creature who had been in the pay of his lordship, and promised him as large a sum as he could ask for one week's faithful duty. He paid one hasty, miserable visit to the bed-side of his innocent and sleeping child—kissed her and kissed her in his agony—and departed like a tiger to his work.
The fugitives had mistaken the character of Sinclair. They believed that he would adopt no steps either to recover his wife or to punish her seducer, and their measures were taken accordingly. They proceeded leisurely for a few hours, and stopped at the small hotel of a humble market town. Rupert arrived here at an early hour of the morning. His guide, who had quitted his seat on the carriage to look for a relay, learned from the hostler that a carriage had arrived shortly before, containing an English nobleman and his lady, who, he believed, were then in the hotel. Further inquiries, and a sight of the nobleman's carriage, convinced him that the object of the chase was gained. He came with sparkling eyes to acquaint his master with his good success, and rubbed his hands as he announced the fact that sickened Rupert to the heart. Rupert heard, and started from the spot, as though a cannonball had hurled him thence.
"Fortescue," he said, addressing his friend, "we must not quit this spot until he has rendered satisfaction. Hoary villain as he is, he shall not have an hour's grace."
"What would you do?"
"Abide here till morning; watch every door; intercept his passage, and take my vengeance."
"You shall have it, but it must be on principles approved and understood. We are no assassins, let him be what he may. Go you to rest. Before he is awake, I will be stirring. He shall give me an interview ere he dispatches his breakfast; and rely upon me for seeing ample justice done to every party."
Fortescue, who was an Englishman done into French, coolly motioned toSinclair to enter the hotel. The latter retreated from it with loathing.
"No, Fortescue," continued Sinclair, "I sleep not to-night. Here I take my dismal watch—here will I await the fiend. He must not escape me. I can trust you, if any man; but I will trust no man to-night but one."
"As you please, Sinclair," answered the other. "Your honour is in my keeping, and, trust me, it shall not suffer. I will be up betimes, and looking to your interest. Where shall we meet?"
"Here. I shall not budge an inch."
"Good night, then, or rather morning. The day is already breaking. But I shall turn in, if it be but for an hour. I must keep my head clear for the early work."
And saying these words, the worthy Fortescue sought shelter and repose in the hotel.
Rupert counted the heavy moments with a crushed and bleeding spirit, as he paced the few yards of earth to which he had confined his wretched watch. He was alone. It was a bitter morning—cold and sad as his own being. He could not take his eyes from the polluted dwelling; he could not gaze upon it and not weep tears of agony. "Heaven!" he cried, as he walked on, "what have I done, what committed, that I should suffer the torment thou hast inflicted upon me for so many years! Why hast thou chosen me for a victim and a sacrifice! Have I deserved it? Am I so guilty that I should be so punished?" He would have given all that he possessed in the world to be released from the horrid task he had imposed upon himself; yet, for all that the world could give, he would not trust another with that important guard. Oh! it was the excruciating pang of perdition that he was conscious of, as he stood and gazed, until his swelling heart had wellnigh burst, upon the house of shame. He had brought pistols with him—he had taken care of that; at least, he had given them to Fortescue, and enjoined him not to lose sight of them. Were they in safety? He would go and see. He ran from his post, and entered the stable-yard of the hotel. There were two carriages—his own and the Earl of Minden's. His pistol-case was safe—so were the pistols within. A devilish instinct prompted him to look into the carriage of the lord, that stood beside his own; why he should do it he could not tell. He had no business there. It was but feeding the fire that already inflamed him to madness. Yet he opened it. His wife's cloak was there, and a handkerchief, which had evidently been dropped in the owner's anxiety to alight. Her initials were marked upon the handkerchief with the hair of the unhappy man, who forgot her guilt, his tremendous loss, his indignation and revenge, in the recollection of one bright distant scene which that pale token suddenly recalled. The battling emotions of his mind overpowered and exhausted him. He sobbed aloud, dropped on his knees, and pressed the handkerchief to his aching brain.
It could not last. Madness—frenzy—the hottest frenzy of the lost lunatic possessed him, and he grasped a pistol. The muzzle was towards his cheek—his trembling finger was upon the trigger—when a shrill cry, imaginary or real, caused the victim to withhold his purpose—to look about him and to listen. It was nothing—yet very much! The voice had sounded to the father's ear like that of an infant; and the picture which it summoned to his bewildered eye recalled him to reason—started him to a sense of duty, and saved him from self-murder.
There was an impulse to force an entrance to the hotel, and to drag the sinful woman from the embrace of her paramour; but it was checked as soon as formed. He asked not to look upon her face again; in his hot anger he had vowed never to confront her whilst life was still permitted him, but to avoid her like a plague-curse or a fiend. He asked only for revenge upon the monster that had wronged him—the false friend—the matchless liar—the tremendous hypocrite. Nothing should come between him and that complete revenge. There was connected with Lord Minden's crime, all the deformity that attaches to every such offence; but, over and above, there was a rankling injury never to be forgotten or forgiven.What that washeknew,hefelt as his pale lip grew white with shame and indignation, and a sense of past folly, suddenly, but fearfully awakened. A thousand recollections burst upon his brain as he persevered in his long and feverish watch. Now mysterious looks and nods were easily interpreted. Now the neglect of the world, the unkind word, the inexplicable and solemn hints were unraveled as by magic. "Fool, dolt, mad-man!" he exclaimed, striking his forehead, and running like one possessed along the silent road. "A child would have been wiser, an infant would have known better,—ass—idiot—simple, natural, fool!"
The fault of a life was corrected in a moment, but at an incalculable cost, and with the acquisition of a far greater fault. Rupert Sinclair could be no longer the credulous and unsuspecting victim of a subtile and self-interested world. His affliction had armed him with a shield against the assaults of the cunning; but it had also, unfortunately, given him a sword against the approaches of the generous and good. Heretofore he had suspected none. Now he trusted as few. Satan himself might have played upon him in the days of his youth. An angel of light would be repelled if he ventured to give comfort to the bruised soul broken down in its prime.
The guard as well as the sleeping friend were doomed to disappointment. Lord Minden and Elinor were not in the hotel. Shortly after their arrival, his lordship had determined to proceed on his journey, and with a lighter carriage than that which had brought the pair from Paris. He privately hired a vehicle of the landlord, and left his own under the care of a servant whose slumbers were so carefully guarded by the devoted Sinclair. Great was the disappointment of Fortescue, unbounded the rage of Rupert, when they discovered their mistake, and reflected upon the precious hours that had been so wofully mis-spent. But their courage did not slacken, nor the eagerness—of one at least—abate. The direction of the fugitives obtained, as far as it was possible to obtain it, and they were again on the pursuit.
At the close of the second day, fortune turned against the guilty. When upon the high-road, but at a considerable distance from any town, the rickety chariot gave way. Rupert caught sight of it, and beckoned his postilion to stop. He did so. A boor was in charge of the vehicle, the luckless owners of which had, according to his intelligence, been compelled to walk to a small roadside public-house at the distance of a league. The party was described. A grey-headed foreigner and a beautiful young woman—a foreigner also. Rupert leaped into his carriage, and bade the postilion drive on with all his might. The inn was quickly reached. The runaways were there.
Fortescue's task was very easy. He saw lord Minden, and explained his errand. Lord Minden, honourable man, was ready to afford Mr Sinclair all the satisfaction a gentleman could demand, at any time or place.
"No time like the present, my lord," said Fortescue; "no place more opportune. Mr Sinclair is ready at this moment, and we have yet an hour's daylight."
"I have no weapons—no friend."
"We will furnish your lordship with both, if you will favour us with your confidence. Pistols are in Mr Sinclair's carriage. I am at your lordship's service and command: at such a time as this, forms may easily be dispensed with."
"Be it so. I will attend you."
"In half an hour; and in the fallow ground, the skirts of which your lordship can just discover from this window. We shall not keep you waiting."
"I place myself in your hands, Mr Fortescue. I will meet Mr Sinclair. I owe it to my order, and myself, to give him the fullest satisfaction."
The fullest! mockery of mockeries!
The husband and the seducer met. Not a syllable was exchanged. Lord Minden slightly raised his hat as he entered the ground; but Rupert did not return the salute. His cheek was blanched, his lips bloodless and pressed close together; there was wildness in his eye, but, in other respects, he stood calm and self-possessed, as a statue might stand.
Fortescue loaded the pistols. Rupertfired, not steadily, but determinedly—and missed.
Lord Minden fired, and Rupert fell. Fortescue ran to him.
The ball had struck him in the arm, and shattered it.
The nobleman maintained his position, whilst Fortescue, as well as he was able, stanched the flowing wound, and tied up the arm. Fortunately the mutual second had been a surgeon in the army, and knowing the duty he was summoned to, had provided necessary implements. He left his patient for one instant on the earth, and hastened to his lordship.
"Mr. Sinclair," he said, hurriedly, "must be conveyed to yonder house. Your lordship, I need not say, must quit it. That roof cannot shelter you, him, and——no matter. Your carriage has broken down. Ours is at your service. Take it, and leave it at the next post-town. Yours shall be sent on. There is no time to say more. Yonder men shall help me to carry Mr Sinclair to the inn. When we have reached it, let your lordship be a league away from it."
Fortescue ran once more to his friend. Two or three peasants, who were entering the field at the moment, were called to aid. The wounded man was raised, and, on the arms of all, carried fainting from the spot.
Elinor and her companion fled from the inn, wherefore one of them knew not. The luggage of Sinclair had been hastily removed from the carriage, and deposited in the house, but not with necessary speed. As the ill-fated woman was whirled from the door, her eye caught the small and melancholy procession leisurely advancing. One inquiring gaze, which even the assiduity of Lord Minden could not intercept, made known to her thepresence, and convinced her of thefact. She screamed,—but proceeded with her paramour, whilst her husband was cared for by his friend.
A surgeon was sent for from the nearest town, who, arriving late at night, deemed it expedient to amputate the patient's arm without delay. The operation was performed without immediately removing the fears which, after a first examination, the surgeon had entertained for the life of the wounded man. The injury inflicted upon an excited system threw the sufferer into a fever, in which he lay for days without relief or hope. The cloud, however, passed away, after much suffering during the flitting hours of consciousness and reason. The afflicted man was finally hurled upon life's shore again, prostrate, exhausted, spent. His first scarce-audible accents had reference to his daughter.
"My child!" he whispered imploringly, to a sister of charity ministering at his side.
"Will be with you shortly," replied the devoted daughter of heaven, who had been with the sufferer for many days.
Rupert shook his head.
"Be calm," continued the religious nurse; "recover strength; enable yourself to undergo the sorrow of an interview, and you shall see her. She is well provided for: she is happy—she is here!"
"Here!" faintly ejaculated Rupert, and looking languidly about him.
"Yes, and very near you. In a day or two she shall come and comfort you."
The benevolent woman spoke the truth. When she had first been summoned to the bed-side of the wounded man, she diligently inquired into the circumstances of the case, and learned as much as was necessary of his sad history from the faithful Fortescue. It was her suggestion that the child should forthwith be removed from Paris, and brought under the same roof with her father. She knew, with a woman's instinct,—little as she had mixed with the world,—how powerful a restorative would be the prattle of that innocent voice, when the moment should arrive to employ it without risk.
Rupert acknowledged the merciful consideration. He put forth his thin emaciated hand, and moved his lips as though he would express his thanks. He could not, but he wept.
The nurse held up her finger for mild remonstrance and reproof. It was not wanting. The heart was elevated by the grateful flow. He slumbered more peacefully for that outpouring of his grateful soul.
The child was promised, as soon asleave could be obtained from the medical authorities to bring her to her father's presence. If he should continue to improve for two days, he knew his reward. If he suffered anxiety of mind and the thought of his calamity to retard his progress, he was told his punishment. He became a child himself, in his eagerness to render himself worthy of the precious recompense. He did not once refer to what had happened. Fortescue sat hour after hour at his side, and he heard no syllable of reproach against the woman who had wronged him—no further threat of vengeance against the villain who had destroyed her.
The looked-for morning came. Rupert was sitting up, and the sister of charity entered his humble apartment with the child in her hand. Why should that holy woman weep at human love and natural attachments? What sympathy had she with the vain expressions of delight and woe—with paternal griefs and filial joys? The lip that had been fortified by recent prayer, trembled with human emotion;—the soul that had expatiated in the passionless realms to which its allegiance was due, acknowledged a power from which it is perilous for the holiest to revolt.Naturehad a moment of triumph in the sick-chamber of a broken-hearted man. It was brief as it was sacred. Let me not attempt to describe or disturb it!
The religious and benevolent sister was an admirable nurse, but she was not to be named in the same day with Alice. She learned her father's little ways with the quickness of childhood, and ministered to them with the alacrity and skill of a woman. She knew when he should take his drinks—she was not happy unless permitted to convey them from the hands of the good sister to those of the patient. She was the sweetest messenger and ambassadrix in the world: so exact in her messages—so brisk on her errands! She had the vivacity of ten companions, and the humour of a whole book of wit. She asked a hundred questions on as many topics, and said the oddest things in life. When Sinclair would weep, one passing observation from her made him laugh aloud. When his oppressed spirit inclined him to dulness, her lighter heart would lead him, against his will, to the paths of pleasantness and peace!
Was it Providence or chance that sealed upon her lips the name of one who must no longer be remembered in her father's house? Singularly enough, during the sojourn of Rupert Sinclair and his daughter in the roadside inn, neither had spoken to the other of the wickedness that had departed from them; and less singular was it, perhaps, that the acutest pang that visited the breast of Elinor was that which accompanied the abiding thought, that Rupert was ever busy referring to the mother's crime, and teaching the infant lip to mutter curses on her name.
In the vicinity of the inn was a forest of some extent. Hither, as Sinclair gathered strength, did he daily proceed with his little companion, enjoying her lively conversation, and participating in her gambols. He was never without her. He could not be happy if she were away: he watched her with painful, though loving jealousy. She was as unhappy if deprived of his society. The religious sister provided a governess to attend upon her, but the governess had not the skill to attach her to her person. At the earliest hour of the morning, she awoke her father with a kiss: at the last hour of the night, a kiss from his easily recognised lips sealed her half-conscious half-dreaming slumbers. Alice was very happy. She could not guess why her father should not be very happy too, and always so.
For one moment let us follow the wretched Elinor, and trace her in her flight. Whilst her own accusing conscience takes from her pillow the softness of its down, and the vision of her husband, as she last saw him, haunts her at every turn like a ghost—striking terror even to her thoughtless heart, and bestowing a curse upon her life which she had neither foreseen nor thought of, let us do her justice. Vice itself is not all hideousness. The immortal soul cannot be all pollution. Defaced and smirched it may be—cruelly misused and blotted over by the sin and passion of mortality; but it will, and must, proclaim its origin inthe depths of degradation. There have been glimpses of the heavenly gift when it has been buried deep, deep in the earth—beams of its light in the murkiest and blackest day! Elinor was guilty—lost here beyond the power of redemption—she was selfish and unworthy; yet not wholly selfish—not utterly unworthy. I am not her apologist—I appear not here to plead her cause. Heaven knows, my sympathy is far away—yet I will do her justice. I will be her faithful chronicler.
Upon the fourth day of her elopement she had reached Lyons. Here, against the wish of the Earl of Minden, she expressed a determination to remain for at least a day: she desired to see the city—moreover, she had friends—one of whom she was anxious to communicate with, and might never see again. Who he was she did not say, nor did his lordship learn, before they quitted the city on the following day. The reader shall be informed.
It was on the afternoon of the day of their arrival in Lyons that Elinor paid her visit to the friend in question. He resided in a narrow street leading from the river-side into the densest and most populous thoroughfares of that extensive manufacturing town: the house was a humble one, and tolerably quiet. The door was open, and she entered. She ascended a tolerably-wide stone staircase, and stopped before a door that led into an apartment on the fourth floor. She knocked softly: her application was not recognised—but she heard a voice with which she was familiar.
"Cuss him imperence!" it said; "him neber satisfied. I broke my heart, sar, in your service, and d—n him—no gratitude."
"Don't you turn against me, too," answered a feeble voice, like that of a sick man. "I shall be well again soon, and we will push on, and meet them at Marseilles."
"Push on! I don't understand 'push on,' when fellow's not got half-penny in the pocket. Stuck to you like a trump all my life; it's not the ting to bring respectable character into dis 'ere difficulty."
"Give me something to drink."
"What you like, old genl'man?" was the answer. "Course you call for what you please—you got sich lots of money. You have any kind of water you think proper—from ditch water up to pump."
"You are sure there were no letters for me at the post?" inquired the feeble voice.
"Come, stop dat, if you please. That joke's damned stale and aggravating. Whenever I ask you for money, you send me to the post. What de devil postman see in my face to give me money?"
Elinor knocked again and again; still unanswered, she opened the door. In the apartment which she entered, she perceived, grinning out of the window, with his broad arms stretched under his black face, the nigger of our early acquaintance—the old servant of her father's house—the gentleman who had represented the yahoo upon the evening of my introduction to the general—the fascinating Augustus. Behind him, on a couch that was drawn close to the wall, and surmounted by a dingy drapery, lay—her father—a shadow of his former self—miserably attired, and very ill, as it would seem, mentally and bodily. Both the yahoo and the general started upon her entrance, for which they were evidently wholly unprepared.
"Elinor!" said the general, "you have received my letter?"
"I have," was the reply—scarcely heard—with such deep emotion was it spoken!
"And you cannot help me?" he asked again, with a distracted air.
"I can," she answered—"I will—it is here—all you ask—take it—repair to my mother—save her—yourself."
She presented him with a paper as she spoke. He opened it eagerly, and his eye glittered again as he perused it.
"Did you get it easily, child?" he said.
"No—with difficulty—great difficulty," she answered wildly. "But there it is. It will relieve you from your present trouble, and pay your passage."
"Augustus—we will start to-night," said the general anxiously, "we will not lose a moment."
"Father," said Elinor, with agitation,"I must be gone. Give my love to my mother. I have sent all that I could procure for her comfort and happiness. I tell you, father, it was not obtained without some sacrifice. Spend it not rashly—every coin will have its value. I may not be able to send you more. Tell her not to curse me when she hears my name mentioned as it will be mentioned, but to forgive and forget me."
The old man was reading the bank-bill whilst his daughter spoke, and had eyes and ears for nothing else.
"We shall never forget you, dear child," he said, almost mechanically.
He folded the bill carefully, put it into his pocket, buttoned that as carefully, and looked up. The daughter had departed.
Rupert Sinclair recovered from the wound he had received, and from the subsequent operation; but strength came not as quickly as it had been promised, or as he could wish. He removed, after many months, from the inn, and commenced his journey homewards. To be released from the tie which still gave his name to her who had proved herself so utterly unworthy of it, was his first business; his second, to provide instruction and maternal care for the young creature committed to his love. He travelled by short and easy stages, and arrived at length in London. He was subdued and calm. All thoughts of revenge had taken leave of his mind; he desired only to forget the past, and to live for the future. He had witnessed and suffered the evil effects of a false education. He was resolved that his child should be more mercifully dealt with. He had but one task to accomplish in life. He would fulfil it to the letter.
Sinclair waited upon his legal adviser as soon as he reached the metropolis. That functionary heard his client's statement with a lugubrious countenance, and sighed profoundly, as though he were very sorry that the affair had happened.
"These are cases, sir," said he, "that make the prosecution of a noble profession a painful and ungrateful labour. Surgeons, however, must not be afraid to handle the knife. What we must do, it is better to do cheerfully. Don't you think so?"
Sinclair nodded assent.
"And now your witnesses, Mr Sinclair. We must look them up. The chief, I presume, are abroad."
"Many are, necessarily," answered Rupert. "There is one gentleman however, in England, with whom I am anxious that you should put yourself in immediate communication. When I went abroad, he was at Oxford, residing in the college, of which he is a fellow. He is my oldest friend. He is well acquainted with my early history, and is aware of all the circumstances of my marriage. He may be of great service to us both: you, he may save much trouble—me, infinite pain."
"Just so," said the lawyer. "And his name?"
"Walter Wilson, Esq. of —— College, Oxford."
"I will fish him up to-day," said the legal man. "We shall have an easy case. There will be no defence, I presume?"
"Hardly!" answered Sinclair.
"Judgment by default! You will get heavy damages, Mr Sinclair. Lord Minden is as rich as Crœsus; and the case is very aggravated. Violation of friendship—a bosom-friend—one whom you had admitted to your confidence and hearth. We must have these points prominently put. I shall retain Mr Thessaly. That man, sir, was born for these aggravated cases."
"You will write to Mr Wilson?" said Sinclair, mournfully.
"This very day. Don't be unhappy, Mr Sinclair—you have a capital case, and will get a handsome verdict."
"When you have heard from Mr Wilson, let me know. I wish to arrange an interview with him, and have not the heart to write myself. Tell him I am in town—that I must see him."
"I will do it. Can I offer you a glass of wine, Mr Sinclair, or any refreshment? You look pale and languid."
"None, I thank you!"
"And the little lady in the parlour?"
"I am obliged to you—nothing. I must go to her—I have kept her waiting. Good-morning, sir."
Sinclair joined his daughter, and proceeded with her to his hotel. She was still his constant companion. He did not move without her. His anxiety to have the child always at his side bordered on insanity. Whether he quitted his home for amusement or business, she must accompany him, and clasp the only hand that he had now to offer her. He dreaded to be alone, and no voice soothed him but that of the little chatterer. How fond he was of it—of her—who shall say! or how necessary to his existence the treasure he had snatched from ruin in the hour of universal wreck!
Before visiting his lawyer, Sinclair had dispatched a private communication to his old serving-man, John Humphreys, who, upon the breaking up of Rupert's establishment, had returned to the service of Lord Railton, his ancient master. That trusty servant was already at the hotel when Sinclair reached it.
"You have spoken to nobody of my being here, Humphreys," said Rupert, when he saw him.
"To nobody, your honour."
"Then follow me!"
When they had come to Sinclair's private room, he continued—
"My father, Humphreys—Tell me quickly how he is."
"Oh, a world better, sir."
"Thank God! And my mother?"
"Breaking, sir. This last affair"—
"They are in town?"
"Yes, your honour—you will call upon them, won't you? It will do her ladyship's heart good to see you again—though, saving your honour's presence, you looks more like a spectre than a human being."