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 in the
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 CrA"sus; 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."
"No, Humphreys, I cannot see them. They must not even know that I am now
in London. I would have avoided this interview, could I have quitted
England again without some information respecting them. I shall be
detained here for a few days--it may be for weeks--but I return again to
the Continent, never again to leave it."
"Do you think them foreign doctors understand your case, sir?"
"My case!"
"Yes, sir--you are not well, I am sure. You want feeding and building
up--English beef and beer. Them foreigners are killing you."
Rupert smiled.
"You'll excuse me, sir, but laughing isn't a good sign, when a man has
reason to cry."
Rupert shuddered.
"I beg your pardon, sir--I didn't mean that," continued the honest
fellow. "I did not refer to your feelings. I meant your health, sir.
Live well, sir; eat good English fare, and take the bilious pills when
you are out of sorts."
John Humphreys was dismissed with many thanks for his sympathy and
advice, and with strict injunctions to maintain silence respecting
Rupert's movements. Had Sinclair learned that his parents were ill, or
needful of his presence, he would have gone to them at once. They were
well--why should he molest them, or bring fresh anguish to their
declining years?
I received the communication of Sinclair's lawyer, and answered it
respectfully, refusing the interview that was asked. As I have already
intimated, I had avoided his house and himself from the very moment that
I had obtained what seemed ocular demonstration of guilt, which that of
his friend and patron, the Earl of Minden himself, could not surpass.
Whilst reports of that guilt came to me through the medium of servants,
however trustworthy, and strangers, however disinterested, I had
resisted them as cruel inventions and palpable slanders. With the
attestation of my own eyes, I should have been an idiot had I come to
any but one conclusion, how degrading soever that might be to my friend,
or contradictory to all my past experience or preconceived hopes.
Nothing, I solemnly vowed, should induce me to speak again to the man,
branded with infamy so glaring, brought by his own folly and vice so
low. I had heard, in common with the rest of the world, of the
elopement, and possibly with less surprise than the majority of my
fellow-men. If I wondered at all at the affair, it was simply as to how
much Rupert had been paid for his consent, and as to the value he had
fixed upon his reputation and good name. I received the application of
the lawyer, and declined to accede to it.
As I sat reading in my room, upon the second morning after I had
dispatched my answer to Mr Cribbs, of Carey Street, Lincoln's Inn
Fields, I was roused by a knock at the inner door. I requested my
visitor to walk in. He did so.--Rupert Sinclair, and his child, stood
before me!
I was fearfully shocked. He looked, indeed, more like a ghost than a
living man. Fifty years of pain and anxiety seemed written on a brow
that had not numbered thirty summers. His eye was sunk, his cheek was
very wan and pallid. There was no expression in his countenance; he
stood perfectly passionless and calm. The little girl was a lovely
creature. A sickening sensation passed through me as I mentally compared
her lineaments with those of the joyous creature whom I had met in Bath,
and then referred to those of the poor father, so altered, so wofully
and so wonderfully changed! She clung to that father with a fondness
that seemed to speak of his desertion, and of his reliance upon her for
all his little happiness. I was taken by surprise; I knew not what to
do; the memory of past years rushed back upon me. I saw him helpless and
forsaken. I could not bid him from my door; I could not speak an unkind
word.
I placed a chair before the man, whose strength seemed scarce sufficient
to support its little burden.
"Sinclair," I exclaimed, "you are ill!"
"I am!" he answered. "Very ill; worse than I had feared. They tell me I
must leave the country, and seek milder air. I shall do so shortly; for
her sake, not my own."
The little Alice put her delicate and alabaster hand about her parent's
face, and patted it to express her gratitude or warm affection. My heart
bled in spite of me.
"You refused to meet me, Wilson," said Sinclair quietly.
I blushed to think that I had done so; for I forgot every thing in the
recollection of past intimacy, and in the consciousness of what I now
beheld. I made no answer.
"You refused to meet me," he repeated. "You did me injustice. I know
your thoughts, your cruel and unkind suspicions. I have come to remove
them. Walter, you have cursed my name; you shall live to pity my
memory."
"Rupert," I stammered, "whatever I may have thought or done, I assert
that I have not willingly done you injustice. I have"----
I looked at the child, unwilling to say more in that innocent and holy
presence.
Sinclair understood me. He asked permission for her to retire into an
adjoining room. I told him that there was no one there to keep her
company. He answered, that it did not matter; she was used to be alone,
and to wait hours for her parent when business separated them in a
stranger's house. "They made it up at home," he added, "and she was
happier so than in the society of her governess."
"Is it not so, Alice?" he asked, kissing her as he led her from the
apartment.
She answered with a kiss as warm as his, and a smile brighter than any
he could give.
"Wilson," began Sinclair, as soon as he returned to me, "you know my
history. The whole world knows it, and enjoys it. I have come to England
to disannul our marriage. That over, I must save this life if possible:
the doctors tell me I am smitten--that I shall droop and die. The mild
air of Italy alone can save me. Oh, I wish to live for that young
creature's sake! I cannot yet afford to die."
"Things are not so bad, I trust."
He shook his head, and proceeded.
"You, Wilson, must further my views. I have acquainted my solicitor with
our former intimacy, and of the part which you took in this unfortunate
business. You may accelerate the affair by your co-operation and aid.
You must not deny it! Three months to me now are worth ten times as many
years. I need peace of mind--repose. I would seek them in the grave, and
gladly, but for her. I must find them in a land that will waft health to
me, and give me strength for coming duties. You must stand by me now,
if ever; you must not leave me, Wilson, till we have reached the
opposite shore, and are safely landed."
"What can I do!"
"Much! The solicitor says, every thing. Your evidence is of the utmost
consequence. Your assistance cannot be dispensed with. See him, and he
will tell you more. We cannot depart until the marriage is dissolved.
Should I die, she must have no claim upon that tender innocent!"
"Rupert," I exclaimed, "shall I speak plainly to you?"
"Ay," he answered, growing erect, and looking me full in the face, "as a
man!"
"You demand of me," I continued, "a simple impossibility! I can do
nothing for you. I can give you no help, no counsel. Ask your own
once-faithful conscience, that once stern and honest monitor, how I, of
all men, can befriend you? I may speak only to destroy you and your
cause together. Seek a better ally--a less shackled adviser. Is it not
publicly known?--do I not know it? Rupert, you have told me to speak
plainly, and I will, I must. I say, do I not know that you yourself
pandered to her profligacy? Did I not, with these eyes, which, would to
Heaven, had been blind ere they had seen that miserable day--did I not,
with these eyes, behold you walking before your door, whilst Lord Minden
was closeted with your wife? Did you not turn back when you discovered
he was there? Did I not see you turn back? Answer me, Rupert. Did
I?--did I?"
"You did," he answered, with perfect equanimity.
"And," I continued, "acknowledging this horror, you ask me to advance
your cause, and to speak on your behalf!"
"I do," he said, with a majestic calmness that confounded and abashed
me--so prophetic was it of an approaching justification, so thoroughly
indicative of truth and innocence.
"I do," he repeated, looking at me steadily, and speaking with more
emotion as he proceeded. "Listen to me, Walter. I am a dying man! Say
what they will, the seeds of an incurable disease are sown within me. Do
what I may, my hours are numbered, and life is nearly spanned. I speak
to you as a dying man. You saw that child! She is friendless,
motherless, and will be shortly fatherless. I am about to consign her to
Heaven and its mercy. I cannot utter falsehood upon the verge of
eternity, leaving that dear pledge behind me. Upon my sacred honour, I
speak the truth. Listen to it, and believe, as you would believe a
messenger accredited from the skies. I have been a fool, an idiot,
weaker than the creature whom the law deprives of self-control, and
places in the custody of guards and keepers; but my honour is as
spotless as you yourself could wish it. You knew of my difficulties:
something you knew also of my introduction to the Earl of Minden--an
aged villain--yes _aged_ and old enough to disarm suspicion, if no
stronger reason existed to destroy it; but there was a stronger. I
marvelled at the extraordinary interest evinced for a stranger by this
powerful and wealthy nobleman; but wonder ceased with explanation--and
explanation from whom? from one whom I trusted as myself--from my wife,
whom I loved better than myself. It is nothing that I look back with
sickening wonder _now_. I was her devoted husband _then_, and I believed
her. I would have believed her had she drawn upon my credulity a
thousand times more largely. What devil put the lie into her soul I know
not, but early in the friendship of this lord, she confided to me the
fact that General Travis was not her father; she had been consigned to
him, she said, at an early age, but her actual parent was who?--the
brother of this same Lord Minden. It was a plausible tale coming from
her lips. I did not stay to doubt it. Other lies were necessary to
maintain the great falsehood; but the fabric which they raised was
well-proportioned and consistent in its parts. Why did I not enter my
home when Lord Minden was closeted with my wife? You will remember that
we speak of a time when there was daily discussion concerning my
promotion. 'Her uncle,' she said again and again, 'would do nothing for
me if I were present. He was a singular and obstinate man, and would
make our fortune in his own way. He was angry with me for running off
with his niece--whom, though illegitimate, he had destined for greater
honour than even an alliance with Lord Railton's heir; he was further
hurt at Lord Railton's treatment of Elinor, and the proud neglect of my
mother; the conduct of my parents had inspired him with a dislike for
their son, and although for Elinor's sake he would advance our
interests, yet he would not consult me, or meet me in the matter. If I
were present, her uncle would say nothing--do nothing. This was
reiterated day after day. From fountains that are pure, we look not for
unclean waters. Trusting her with my whole heart and soul, I should have
committed violence to my nature had I doubted her. It was impossible:
with the plausibility of Satan, she had the loveliness of angels! Now I
see the artifice and fraud--now I feel the degradation--now the horrible
position in which I stood is too frightfully apparent! But what avails
it all! God forgive me for my blindness! He knows my innocence!"
The injured and unhappy husband stopped from sheer exhaustion. Shame
overspread my face; bitter reproaches filled my heart. I had done him
cruel wrong. I rose from my seat, and embraced him. I fell upon my
knees, and asked his forgiveness.
"Walter," he said, with overflowing eyes; "you do not think me guilty?"
"Punish me not, Rupert," I answered, "by asking me the question. The
sorceress was a subtle one. I knew her to be so."
"Name her not, friend," proceeded Sinclair; "I have already forgiven
her. I seek to forget her. Life is hateful to me, yet I must live if
possible for my darling Alice. You will return to town with me, will you
not, and hasten on this business?"
"I will not leave you, Rupert," I replied, "till I have seen you safely
through it, and on the seas. We will lose no time. Let us go to London
this very day."