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 looks and 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 Lady Railton, 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 the _table-d'hA'te_ of
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 the _saal_ that 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. _She_ had
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, and _bouquets_
had already been thrown to the _prima donna_ of the Berlin opera. Never
had Wiesbaden known such delight. Mine host, who stood at the entrance
of the _saal_, 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 but ONE request 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
the brilliancy 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.