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

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!

The religious and benevolent sister was an admirable nurse, but she was 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 Crœsus; 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.