"Go on," said Sinclair, calmly.
"Read, read for yourself!" I exclaimed, placing the letter I had
received from Mrs Twisleton, without further ceremony, in his hands.
He did read--every line, without the smallest surprise or
perturbation--and then folded the document, and gave it back to me. I
thought him mad.
"This is no news to me, Wilson," he said quietly. "I have been put on my
guard respecting these slanderers. Their baseness does not take me by
surprise. The trick is a poor one."
"The trick!"
"Yes; if it deserve no harsher name. What know you of the writer of that
letter?"
I had but one answer to give to that question--"Nothing." And the name
of Mrs Twisleton was sacred.
"I thought so," proceeded Rupert. "Every assertion contained in that
precious document has already met with a sufficient refutation. I know
_my_ informant, and can rely upon _my_ information; advantages of which,
dear Wilson, you cannot boast."
"Sinclair," I replied, with warmth, "remember what passed between us
yesterday. 'Prove,' said you, 'that Elinor Travis is less good than
beautiful and her influence ceases from that moment.' Give me time to
prove it, or to ask your pardon and hers for as much as I have said
already. I must exact this from you. It is all I ask. With this document
before me, I can demand no less."
"Do as you will. What do you propose?"
"To go at once to town; to seek out the writer of this letter, and to
obtain from her proofs of her allegations which even you must respect
and listen to. If I fail to secure them, you shall be pained no more by
interference of mine."
"Be it so," said Sinclair; "I await your return here."
Upon the evening of this day I was in London, and on the following
morning at the residence of the lady whom I sought. Ill luck attended my
steps. She was ill, and could not be seen. For a week I remained in
London, unable to gain an interview, or to communicate with her. I
obtained the name of her physician, waited upon him, and asked him to
convey a letter from me to his patient. It was impossible. It was of the
highest consequence to keep the lady tranquil. In every post I wrote to
Sinclair, informing him of my disappointment, and conjuring him to take
no steps until my mind, as well as his, was satisfied. He returned no
answer to my communications, but I relied upon his friendship. Upon the
eighth day of my absence, sick to death with impatience and idleness,
and no nearer to my object than on the first day of my arrival, I
resolved to return to Bath, and to remain with my friend until I should
receive intelligence of the lady's convalescence. Something might be
done by remonstrance and entreaty. To leave him to himself, was to give
up every chance of his salvation.
The coach in which I travelled halted at Marlborough for dinner. When I
alighted, I perceived, but took no particular notice of a post-chaise
standing at the door of the inn. I had scarcely set foot in the house,
however, before I encountered General Travis. The moment he caught sight
of me, he seemed to become agitated or alarmed. He approached me--took
me by the arm, and led me into the open air.
"Have you seen them?" he eagerly asked.
"Seen whom?" I asked in return.
"Your friend. He is a villain!"
"General Travis," I said indignantly, "I have no friend to whom that
term applies, nor must you couple it with any name that's dear to me."
"Forgive me, forgive me!" said the general with evident grief. "I have
been deceived, cruelly deceived; my house is deserted--my child is
stolen--they have eloped!"
"Eloped!"
"Yes; Mr Sinclair and my daughter. This very morning. Your friend, my
Elinor!"
The general stamped; then walked furiously about, whilst I stood
thunderstruck.
"He never spoke to me on the matter; as I am a living man, he never
hinted to me his attachment. Could I have suspected it--dreamed it? Oh,
my child, my child!"
I looked hard at the man, as intently as my agitation would permit, and
I believed his passion to be genuine and honest. Tears were in his eyes,
and he wrung his hands, and raved like men in deep affliction. Could I
be deceived?
"Whither have they gone?" I asked.
"God knows; I missed my child at breakfast. She had never been absent
before. I was alarmed, but looked for her return. At noon, we heard that
she had been seen at the distance of half a mile from the city, walking
quickly with Mr Sinclair. At Mr Sinclair's hotel, I learned that he had
quitted the city, and had ordered a chaise and four to meet him a mile
off, at ten o'clock precisely. I followed them at once, and traced them
for twenty miles, and then lost sight of them altogether."
"What is your intention now?"
"To take the north road, and, if possible, to overtake and recover her.
I am heart-broken and distracted. He has robbed me of a treasure, dearer
to me"----
Fresh horses had been put to the general's carriage, and the postilions
were already in the saddle; not a moment was to be lost. Before the
general could finish his speech, he was seated in the chaise, and
driving away at the rate of fifteen miles an hour.
My feelings may be imagined. What to do, I knew not; and there was
little time to consider. The dinner had been transacted during our
anxious conference, and the horses' heads were looking towards Bath. The
coachman mounted the box. I ascended the other side, and took my seat
next to him, quite mechanically.
"Knowing gentleman, that 'ere," said Jehu, "as you conwersed with."
"Do you know him then?" I asked with curiosity.
Jehu closed one eye; rubbed his chin against his comforter, and said,
"hexcessively!"
"What of him?"
"Werry deep and werry singular. I've druv him many a time."
"He's very rich," said I.
"Oh, werry! So they say. So I s'pose he is. For my part, I'm no judge of
mutton till it's cut up. Is he a werry pertickler friend of yours?"
"No friend at all. Scarcely an acquaintance. I have met him but once
before to-day."
"Then it won't break your heart to hear, that it wouldn't be quite as
safe as the bank of England to lend him twenty pounds. A box fare once
told me he wasn't worth a sixpence, and that he'd come down one of these
days like a crash in a china shop. My fare was an Injyman, as had known
the gentleman out in them parts, where he was obliged to cut with all
his family."
"Oh, did he say any thing about the family?"
"No; nothing about the family. Them, he said, was all right, especially
one beautiful girl as he had, that run the rigs with a hofficer, and
broke every body else's heart. My eye! wouldn't I have given my
top-boots to have been that 'ere hofficer!"
I changed the subject of discourse, and not once again did I revert to
it for the rest of that disastrous journey. Arriving at Bath, I
proceeded at once to the hotel in which I had left Sinclair. He was
gone--but no one could tell me whither. The account given by General
Travis was corroborated by the master of the house. Mr Sinclair had
ordered a chaise and four to wait for him at the distance of a mile from
the city--his order had been complied with, and nothing since had been
heard of him.
"It's very strange," said I.
"Yes, sir, very," replied mine host, "and strange things have happened
since. You knew General Travis, sir, I believe?"
"I have seen him in Bath; what of him?"
"Dreadful affair that of his. The whole family have vanished."
"Vanished!"
"Yes, sir. Three or four days ago the general's lady vanished with the
youngest daughter; this morning the eldest daughter vanished by herself;
and an hour or two afterwards, the general vanished with his own man,
having previously discharged every other servant in the establishment."
"Is any reason assigned?"
"Debt, they tell me. The family have gone abroad to recover themselves;
and, whilst they are recovering themselves, scores here will be ruined.
The house has been beset with creditors this afternoon, and one poor
fellow in the next street, a working upholsterer, with a family of ten
children, has been raving at the doors like a madman."
"You are mistaken," I said; "the general has not vanished after the
manner you describe. To-morrow every thing will be explained. I do not
feel myself at liberty to say more now. Let me entreat you, however, to
remove the absurd impression that has been made; and, above all, to
dispel the unfounded apprehensions of the unfortunate man you speak of."
"Glad to hear you say so," rejoined mine host; "but I doubt it."
He left me and I sallied forth; first to Mrs Twisleton's, who at first
was not at home, but, receiving my card, sent her servant running half a
mile, to assure me that she was. Poor Mrs Twisleton! sad and lugubrious
was she on that melancholy evening. Faithful visions of the unappeasable
wrath of the proud Lord Railton flickered before her eyes, and pierced
her very soul.
The next advowson was no advowson at all, as far as she was concerned,
and her hope and offspring were alike cut off by the terrible and
irrevocable act of the morning. I found the lady in tears.
"This is a shocking business, madam!" I began.
It was the signal for a flood.
"When did you arrive?" she sobbed.
"An hour since."
"And you have heard of it?"
"Of the elope"----
"Oh, don't, don't, don't speak of it!" shrieked the lady. "It turns me
sick. He has married a beggar--the daughter of an impostor and a
swindler."
"Can it be true?"
"Oh, you have been very dilatory and foolish, Mr Wilson," suddenly
exclaimed Mrs Twisleton in a clear sharp tone, which had nothing of the
softness of tears about it. "Had I been a man, I would have saved my
friend from certain infamy. Mr Wilson, I gave you full warning--ample
time. You cannot deny it."