Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 372, October 1846», sayfa 9

ELINOR TRAVIS
A Tale in Three Chapters
Chapter the Last

I resolved to seek Rupert Sinclair no more, and I kept my word with cruel fidelity. But what could I do? Had I not seen him with my own eyes – had I not passed within a few feet of him, and beheld him, to my indignation and bitter regret, avoiding his house, sneaking basely from it, and retreating into the next street, because that house contained his wife and her paramour? Yes —paramour! I disbelieved the world no longer. There could be no doubt of the fact. True, it was incomprehensible – as incomprehensible as terrible! Rupert Sinclair, pure, sensitive, high-minded, and incorrupt, was incapable of any act branded by dishonour, and yet no amount of dishonour could be greater than that attached to the conduct which I had heard of and then witnessed. So it was – a frightful anomaly! a hideous discrepancy! Such as we hear of from time to time, and are found within the experience of every man, unhinging his belief, giving the lie to virtue, staggering the fixed notions of the confiding young, and confirming the dark conclusions of cold and incredulous age.

I hated London. The very air impure with the weight of the wickedness which I knew it to contain; and I resolved to quit the scene without delay. As for the mansion in Grosvenor Square, and its aristocratic inhabitants, I had never visited then with my own free will, or for my own profit and advantage: I forsook them without a sigh. For Rupert's sake I had submitted to insult from the overbearing lackeys of Railton House, and suffered the arrogance of the proud and imbecile lord himself. Much more I could have borne gladly and cheerfully to have secured his happiness, and to have felt that he was still as pure as I had known him in his youth.

To say that my suspicions were confirmed by public rumour, is to say nothing. The visits of Lord Minden were soon spoken of with a sneer and a grin by every one who could derive the smallest satisfaction from the follies and misfortunes of one who had borne himself too loftily in his prosperity to be spared in the hour of his trial. The fact, promulgated, spread like wildfire. The once fashionable and envied abode became deserted. There was a blot upon the door, which, like the plague-cross, scared even the most reckless and the boldest. The ambitious father lost sight of his ambition in the degradation that threatened his high name; and the half-conscientious, half-worldly mother forgot the instincts of her nature in the tingling consciousness of what the world would say. Rupert was left alone with the wife of his choice, the woman for whom he had sacrificed all – fortune, station, reputation – and for whom he was yet ready to lay down his life. Cruel fascination! fearful sorcery!

London was no place for such a man. Urged as much by the battling emotions of his own mind as by the intreaties of his wife, he determined to leave it for ever. And in truth the time had arrived. Inextricably involved, he could no longer remain with safety within reach of the strong arm of the law. His debts stared him in the face at every turn; creditors were clamorous and threatening; the horrible fact had been conveyed from the lips of serving-men to the ears of hungry tradesmen, who saw in the announcement nothing but peril to the accounts which they had been so anxious to run up, and now were equally sedulous in keeping down. It had always been known that Rupert Sinclair was not a rich man; it soon was understood that he was also a forsaken one. One morning three disreputable ill-looking characters were seen walking before the house of Mr Sinclair. When they first approached it, there was a sort of distant respect in their air very foreign to their looks and dress, which might indeed have been the result of their mysterious occupation, and no real respect at all. As they proceeded in their promenade, became familiar with the place, and attracted observation, their confidence increased, their respect retreated, and their natural hideous vulgarity shone forth. They whistled, laughed, made merry with the gentleman out of livery next door, and established a confidential communication with the housemaid over the way. Shortly one separated from the rest – turned into the mews at the corner of the street, and immediately returned with a bench that he had borrowed at a public-house. His companions hailed him with a cheer – the bench was placed before the door of Sinclair's house; the worthies sat and smoked, sang ribald songs, and uttered filthy jokes. A crowd collected, and the tale was told. Rupert had fled the country; the followers of a sheriff's officer had barricadoed his once splendid home, and, Cerberus-like, were guarding the entrance into wretchedness and gloom.

Heaven knows! there was little feeling in Lord Railton. Some, as I have already intimated, still existed in the bosom of his wife, whom providence had made mother to save her from an all-engrossing selfishness; but to do the old lord justice, he was shaken to the heart by the accumulated misfortunes of his child – not that he regarded those misfortunes in any other light than as bringing discredit on himself, and blasting the good name which it had been the boast of his life to uphold and keep clear of all attaint. But this bastard sympathy was sufficient to unman and crush him. He avoided the society of men, and disconnected himself from all public business. Twenty years seemed added to his life when he walked abroad with his head turned towards the earth, as though it were ashamed to confront the public gaze; the furrows of eighty winters were suddenly ploughed into a cheek that no harsh instrument had ever before impaired or visited. In his maturity he was called upon to pay the penalty of a life spent in royal and luxurious ease. He had borne no burden in his youth. It came upon him like an avalanche in the hour of his decline. It is not the strong mind that gives way in the fiery contest of life; the weakest vessel has the least resistance. About six months after Rupert had quitted England, slight eccentricities in the conduct of Lord Railton attracted the notice of his lordship's medical attendant, who communicated his suspicions to Lady Railton, and frightened her beyond all expression with hints at lunacy. Change of air and scene were recommended – a visit to Paris – to the German baths – any where away from England and the scene of trouble. The unhappy Lady Railton made her preparations in a day. Before any body had time to suspect the cause of the removal, the family was off, and the house in Grosvenor Square shut up.

They travelled to Wiesbaden, two servants only accompanied them, and a physician who had charge of his lordship, and towards whom her ladyship was far less patronising and condescending than she had been to the tutor of her son. If misfortune had not elevated her character, it had somewhat chastened her spirit, and taught her the dependency of man upon his fellow man, in spite of the flimsy barriers set up by vanity and pride. Lord Railton was already an altered man when he reached the capital of Nassau. The separation from every object that could give him pain had at once dispelled the clouds that pressed upon his mind; and the cheerful excitement of the journey given vigour and elasticity to his spirit. He enjoyed life again; and his faculties, mental and physical, were restored to him uninjured. Lady Railton would have wept with joy had she been another woman. As it was, she rejoiced amazingly.

The first day in Wiesbaden was an eventful one. Dinner was ordered, and his lordship was dressing, whilst Lady Railton amused herself in the charming gardens of the hotel at which they stopped. Another visitor was there – a lady younger than herself, but far more beautiful, and apparently of equal rank. One look proclaimed the stranger for a countrywoman, a second was sufficient for an introduction.

"This is a lovely spot," said Lady Railton, whose generally silent tongue was easily betrayed into activity on this auspicious morning.

"Do you think so?" answered the stranger, laughing as she spoke; "you are a new comer, and the loveliness of the spot is not yet darkened by the ugliness of the creatures who thrive upon it. Wait awhile."

"You have been here some time?" continued Lady Railton, inquiringly.

"Ja wohl!" replied the other, mimicking the accent of the German.

"And the loveliness has disappeared?"

"Ja wohl!" repeated the other with a shrug.

"You speak their language, I perceive?" said Lady Railton.

"I can say 'Ja wohl,' 'Brod,' and 'Guten morgen' – not another syllable. I was entrapped into those; but not another step will I advance. I take my stand at 'Guten morgen.'"

Lady Railton smiled.

"'Tis not a sweet language, I believe," she continued.

"As sweet as the people, believe me, who are the uncleanest race in Christendom. You will say so when you have passed three months at Wiesbaden."

"I have no hope of so prolonged a stay – rather, you would have me say 'no fear.'"

"Oh! pray remain and judge for yourself. Begin with his Highness the Duke, who dines every day with his subjects at the table-d'hôte of this hotel, and end with that extraordinary domestic animal, half little boy half old man, who fidgets like a gnome about him at the table. Enter into what they call the gaieties of this horrid place – eat their food – drink their wine – look at the gambling – talk to their greasy aristocracy – listen to their growl – contemplate the universal dirt, and form your own conclusions."

"I presume you are about to quit this happy valley!"

The lovely stranger shook her head.

"Ah no! Fate and – worse than fate! – a self-willed husband!"

"I perceive. He likes Germany, and you" —

"Submit!" said the other, finishing the sentence with the gentlest sigh of resignation.

"You have amusements here?"

"Oh, a mine of them! We are the fiercest gamesters in the world; we eat like giants; we smoke like furnaces, and dance like bears."

The ladies had reached the open window of the saal that led into the garden. They stopped. The dinner of one was about to be served up; the husband of the other was waiting to accompany her to the public gardens. They bowed and parted. A concert was held at the hotel that evening. The chief singers of the opera at Berlin, passing through the town, had signified their benign intention to enlighten the worthy denizens of Nassau, on the subject of "high art" in music. The applications for admission were immense. The chief seats were reserved by mine host, "as in private duty bound," for the visitors at his hotel; and the chiefest, as politeness and interest dictated, for the rich and titled foreigners: every Englishman being rich and noble in a continental inn.

The young physician recommended his lordship by all means to visit the concert. He had recommended nothing but enjoyment since they quitted London. His lordship's case was one, he said, requiring amusement; he might have added that his own case was another – requiring, further, a noble lord to pay for it. Lord Railton obeyed his medical adviser always when he suggested nothing disagreeable. Lady Railton was not sorry to have a view of German life, and to meet again her gay and fascinating beauty of the morning.

The hall was crowded; and at an early hour of the evening the lovely stranger was established in the seat reserved for her amidst "the favoured guests." Her husband was with her, a tall pale man, troubled with grief or sickness, very young, very handsome, but the converse of his wife, who looked as blooming as a summer's morn, as brilliant and as happy. Not the faintest shadow of a smile swept across his pallid face. Laughter beamed eternally from her eyes, and was enthroned in dimples on her cheek. He was silent and reserved, always communing with himself, and utterly regardless of the doings of the world about him. She had eyes, ears, tongue, thought, feeling, sympathy only for the busy multitude, and seemed to care to commune with herself as little – as with her husband. A movement in the neighbourhood announced the arrival of fresh comers. Lord Railton appeared somewhat flustered and agitated by suddenly finding himself in a great company, and all the more nervous from a suspicion that he was regarded as insane by every one he passed: then came the young physician, as if from a bandbox, with a white cravat, white gloves, white waistcoat, white face, and a black suit of clothes, supporting his lordship, smiling upon him obsequiously, and giving him professional encouragement and approval: and lastly stalked her ladyship herself with the airs and graces of a fashionable duchess, fresh as imported, and looking down upon mankind with touching superciliousness and most amiable contempt. She caught sight of her friend of the morning on her passage, and they exchanged bland looks of recognition.

The youthful husband had taken no notice of the fresh arrival. Absorbed by his peculiar cares, whatever they might be, he sat perfectly still, unmoved by the preparations of the actors and the busy hum of the spectators. His head was bent towards the earth, to which he seemed fast travelling, and which, to all appearances, would prove a happier home for him than that he found upon its surface. Two or three songs had been given with wonderful effect. Every one had been encored, and bouquets had already been thrown to the prima donna of the Berlin opera. Never had Wiesbaden known such delight. Mine host, who stood at the entrance of the saal, perspiring with mingled pride and agitation, contemplated the scene with a joy that knew no bounds. He was very happy. Like Sir Giles Overreach, he was "joy all over." The young physician had just put an eye-glass to an eye that had some difficulty in screwing it on, with the intention of killing a young and pretty vocalist with one irresistible glance, when he felt his arm clenched by his patient with a passionate vigour that not only seriously damaged his intentions with respect to the young singer, but fairly threw him from his equilibrium. He turned round, and saw the unhappy nobleman, as he believed, in an epileptic fit. His eyes were fixed – his lip trembling – his whole frame quivering. His hand still grasped the arm of the physician, and grasped it the firmer the more the practitioner struggled for release. There was a shudder, a cry – the old man fell – and would have dropped to the floor had he not been caught by the expert and much alarmed physician. A scene ensued. The singer stopped, the audience rose – the fainting man was raised and carried out. The noise had attracted the notice of one who needed an extraordinary provocation to rouse him from his accustomed lethargy. As the invalid passed him, the husband of the merry beauty cast one glance towards his deathlike countenance. It was enough. No, not enough. Another directed to the unhappy lady who followed the stricken lord, was far more terrible, more poignant and acute. It sent a thousand daggers to his heart, every one wounding, hacking, killing. He sunk upon his seat, and covered his streaming eyes with wan and bloodless hands.

"Rupert!" said Elinor, whispering in his ear, "you are ill – let us go."

"Elinor, it's he, it's he!" he stammered in the same voice.

"Who?"

"My father!"

"And that lady?"

"My mother!"

"Good heaven! Lady Railton!"

"I have killed him," continued Rupert. "I have killed him!"

Before the confusion consequent upon the removal of Lord Railton had subsided, Elinor, with presence of mind, rose from her seat, and implored her husband to do the like. He obeyed, hardly knowing what he did, and followed her instinctively. Like a woman possessed, she ran from the scene, and did not stop until she reached her own apartments. Rupert kept at her side, not daring to look up. When he arrived at his room, he was not aware that he had passed his parents in his progress – that the eyes of his wife and his mother had again encountered, and that the sternest scowl of the latter had been met by the most indignant scorn of the former. To this pass had arrived the pleasant acquaintance established three hours before in the hotel garden.

Whilst Elinor Sinclair slept that melancholy night, Rupert watched at his father's door. He believed him to be mortally ill, and he accused himself in his sorrow of the fearful crime of parricide. He had made frequent inquiries, and to all one answer had been returned. The noble lord was still unconscious: her ladyship could not be seen. It was not until the dawn of morning that a more favourable bulletin was issued, and his lordship pronounced once more sensible and out of danger. Rupert withdrew – not to rest, but to write a few hurried lines to his mother – begging one interview, and conjuring her to concede it, even if she afterwards resolved to see him no more. The interview was granted.

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.