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. It _is_ my birthday."
"We must pass the day together: we will go into the country. Little
Alice shall be of the party, and shall be 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. The _mother_ had been checked
in her giddy career, when the _wife_ had 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; and a 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 to
Sinclair 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 was _he_ knew, _he_ felt 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. Rupert fired, 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
the PRESENCE, and convinced her of the FACT. 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 as leave 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. _Nature_ had 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!