Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 372, October 1846

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.

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. 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.