Volume 59 / Part 2 — ELINOR TRAVIS.

A Tale in Three Chapters.

Chapter the First.

It is now forty years since I found myself, for the first time in my life, in the once fashionable city of Bath. I had accompanied thither from London a dear friend from whom I had parted two years before at Oxford; a man as noble as ingenuous, as gentle as he was brave. Few men could boast the advantages enjoyed by Rupert Sinclair. Born of noble blood, of a family whose peerage had been raised upon the foundation of a huge wealth, handsome in person, intellectual, well-informed, enthusiastic and aspiring, he bred a fascination around his existence which it was difficult to resist. I had already graduated when Rupert Sinclair entered Christ Church as a gentleman commoner; I was, moreover, his senior by five years, yet from the moment I saw him until the hour of his decease—with one painful interregnum—we were firm and unflinching friends. He was sent to the university, like others of his rank, to acquire such knowledge of men and books as a temporary residence—and that alone—in an atmosphere of mingled learning and frivolity, is generally supposed to impart. His father looked upon all book knowledge as superfluous, except in a parson or schoolmaster; his lady mother would have been shocked to find him, whether at Oxford or elsewhere, any thing but the gay and fashionable nonentity which her taste and experience had taught her to regard as the perfection of God's fair creation. Lord Railton was a courtier, and affected to be a politician; her ladyship was a woman of fashion. It is surprising to me that, with their views of a nobleman's duties at Oxford, they should have thought it necessary to procure for their son the services of one who had nothing better to offer for his amusement, than the poor learning he had picked up at Eton and elsewhere, to dole out again to the best advantage, for the support of himself and widowed mother. I ought rather to say it was surprising to me then. I have grown wiser since. A tutor was necessary to the position of Lord Railton's son, and it was my happiness to be chosen the instructor of Rupert Sinclair. Every possible pains had been taken to ruin the intellect and impair the moral faculties of the youth. His earliest teachers had been strictly enjoined to give him no tasks which should subject him to the slightest inconvenience, and were forbidden, under pain of dismissal, to ruffle the serenity of his temper, or intercept the slightest movement of his mind, however cross or wayward. Rupert in his very cradle had been taught, both by precept and example, that his equals in rank were his fellow creatures, and that all below him were—creatures, it is true, but the fellows of one another, and not of him and such as he; that the men to whose virtue, discretion, and conduct he was confided—his TEACHERS—were—oh, mockery of mockeries!—his dependents and inferiors, and necessary to him as his nurse or footman, but not a whit more so! Lord Railton was a tyrant, self-willed and imperious by nature, and as cold-blooded and selfish as a superadded artistocratic education could render him. He saw little of his children, whom he terrified when he did see them, and busied himself in this world with little more than the intrigues and plots of the political junto to whom he was bound by a community of interests, rather than affectionately attached. It is my firm belief that miracles have not ceased upon the earth. Invisible angels interpose now, as did the living saints of old, to repair the faults and infirmities of nature, and by a suspension of our ordinary laws to proclaim the might and mercy of the Divinity. How but by a miracle could the character of Rupert Sinclair have belied the natural reasoning of all ordinary mortals, exhibiting the utter annihilation of the intimate connexion of cause and effect, and the independence of the infant soul, when God so wills it, of the machinations of the wicked, and the vicious trifling of the foolish? The good sense of the youth had strengthened and increased under the enervating system which would have destroyed a weaker brain and a less honest heart. I was the tutor of Sinclair, but I suffered him to sketch out his own plan of study. His mother had not failed to forward me the usual instructions respecting the treatment of her darling child; but had she been silent I should not have insisted upon a strict adherence to the college system with one who, neither in the university nor in the world, to which he was about to be summoned, would be tasked to remember or repeat one syllable of his lessons. Great is the temptation to dwell upon these early days of our attachment; for, alas! a pang must wait upon the pen when it traces the last record of a period unclouded by grief. An account of the earliest springtime that promised so fair a summer and harvest, is, it is true, not necessary to the main plot of the drama I have undertaken to write; but one of its chief characters can hardly be thoroughly understood without some reference to his conduct and pursuits previously to the commencement of the action. To say that I was prepossessed in favour of my pupil after my first conversation with him, is to say but little. I was at once surprised, delighted, and charmed. I had expected to receive a spoiled child of fortune; a giddy, self-willed, arrogant, and overbearing boy. I met with one whose demeanour was gentle, modest, and sedate. A childlike simplicity governed his manners; reflection and sound judgment his discourse. Long before the close of my young friend's academical career I had gained his entire confidence—he my heart; and at the close of it, I had not occasion to change one opinion or one sentiment entertained for my charge at the commencement of our friendship; so transparent are the minds of the ingenuous, and of those whom nature shelters from the baleful influences of life. It must, however, be stated, that in the all but perfect specimen of humanity presented to the world in the person of Rupert Sinclair, there existed one flaw to convict it of mortality, and to establish its relation with universal error. The simplicity spoken of as characteristic of the man, degenerated into weakness; faith in the goodness of his fellow-creatures into glaring credulity. It is a singular fact, and one that must be accounted for by those who have made the Mind an especial study, that whilst no man was quicker in detecting the slightest indication of his own imperfection in another, no one could be less conscious of its existence in himself, or less alive to imposition, the moment it was practised under his own eye, and against his own good-nature. How many times, during his residence in Oxford, Rupert Sinclair became the victim of the unprincipled and the sharper, I will not venture to say, prepared as I am to assert that no discovery of falsehood and imposture ever convinced him of the folly of his benevolence, or of the worthlessness of the objects upon whom his favours had been showered. The world is said to be divided into two classes; into those who suspect all men until they are proved honest, and those who believe all men honest until they are proved to be false. The name of Rupert Sinclair might be written in neither category. He not only believed the world to be good prior to experience, but he denied it to be bad, let experience succeed as it might in convicting it of evil.

It was exactly two years after Sinclair quitted Oxford, that I received a letter from him, requesting me to meet him in London as soon after the receipt of his letter as my engagements would permit. The long vacation had again commenced. Rupert was no longer a student, or, to speak more correctly, books had now become the solace and recreation of his leisure hours, rather than the business of his life. To please his fond and very foolish mother, he had accepted a commission in the Guards. The small ambition of Lady Railton was consummated the moment her noble boy appeared in her drawing-room "en grande tenue;" as for the peer, he was too absorbed in his own diplomacy to interfere with that of her ladyship, in whose knowledge of the world and sound discretion he placed unbounded faith. I attended to the summons of Sinclair without delay. Upon arriving in London I went to his hotel, and found him recovering from a fit of illness which at one period had threatened his life, but of which he had as yet kept his family in ignorance. He had been recommended by his physicians to try the waters and mild temperature of Bath; and he was willing to obey them, provided I would become his companion. My time was my own, and I loved Sinclair too well to throw an obstacle in his way, had not the offer itself been temptation enough to one who had passed so many months of physical inactivity, without one holiday, in the dusty gloominess of college rooms. In the course of two days our preparations were made, and we quitted London.

A week glided by in happy idleness. The invalid, compelled to keep his room for many hours of the day, was thrown upon his resources, and upon such as I could command for his amusement. The past is always a pleasant subject of discourse where the speakers are young, and the past is a day of sunshine, still lingering and warm. The days we had seen were bright enough, and to speak of them was to bring them back in all their recent freshness. Rupert was twenty-one, and he wondered at the ingratitude of man that called this world a scene of strife and misery. I was twenty-six, and as yet without a calamity. I had never known my father; and I had maintained my mother in comfort for many years. I had yet to part with her.

Another week, and the invalid was convalescent. The walks were extended and the prescriptions torn up. Invitations came and were accepted. A distant relative of Lady Railton was in Bath. Sinclair visited her, and was the next day a guest at her table. There was another guest there. Her name was Elinor Travis.

Twenty times, on the day I speak of, had Sinclair resolved not to keep his engagement, but to send an apology to Mrs Twisleton, and to return to London on the following morning. He had become tired, he said, of idleness, and the frivolities that surrounded us. One word of encouragement from me, and Sinclair would not have dined with Mrs Twisleton, would not have met with her who gave the colouring to his future life, would not have blasted every——but I must not anticipate.

General Travis and his family were amongst the most fashionable of the gay multitude then resident at Bath. They lived in first-rate style, and gathered about them all who aspired to a position in that upper world peopled pre-eminently by the "ton." The general was reputed a man of enormous wealth, and his banker's book procured for him the respect that was denied him in Debrett. The general was the father of two children—daughters—Elinor and Adela. His wife was also living. They were all, according to report, essentially dashing people. So much I knew of them at the period of Sinclair's first acquaintance with the ill-fated Elinor.

After dining with Mrs Twisleton, Sinclair altered his mind. His departure was delayed. Within a day or two he was again invited to Mrs Twisleton's, and again he met the general and his family. Well, there was nothing to excite suspicion in all this! Sinclair said nothing; no observation escaped me. I concluded that a few days would put an end to the new interest that had been raised, and that we should return to London as quietly as we had left it. I was grievously mistaken.

Since our arrival in Bath we had been early risers, and our habits generally somewhat primitive. Suddenly Sinclair took it into his head to walk without me for an hour or so before breakfast. He invariably looked flushed and confused on his return. At least I thought so. I was puzzled, but still said nothing.

I had been favoured by Mrs Twisleton with one or two invitations to dinner, but had never cared to accept them. I resolved, should opportunity again offer, to accompany Sinclair to this lady's house. Whilst waiting, somewhat impatiently and in vain, for another invitation from Mrs Twisleton, a grand ball was announced at General Travis's, and Sinclair was in the number of the favoured guests. He was requested to bring his friend. "His friend" did not refuse.

There were in truth grandeur, profusion, and style sufficient in the entertainments of that evening. No additional outlay could have added to the sumptuous provision that was made for the gratification and delight of every sense. Eye and ear were ravished by the luxuries set before them, and the grosser appetites were not forgotten. What Indian wealth! What princely hospitality! Well might the general be esteemed the most royal of entertainers. Nobility lost none of its prerogative in mixing in such a scene as this, upon which an emperor might have descended with no dishonour to his ermine. I experienced for a time the full power of the enchantment, and acknowledged, against my will, the sovereign dominion of Mammon. I was presented to my hostess and the general. The former was a woman of fifty or thereabouts, delicately formed, pale, and somewhat sickly-looking; there were traces of feminine beauty on her countenance, but, such as they were, retreating rapidly before disease or care, or some ailment hidden from the looker-on. She seemed more like a gentle handmaiden than the mistress of the happy feast. The general was of another race of beings. He stood six feet two, but his extreme height was modified by the admirable proportions of his frame. He was firmly built, and but for a certain unsatisfactory expression in his countenance, might have been considered one of the handsomest men of his day. This expression it is not easy to describe. It proceeded from his eye, and seemed to communicate with all his features, leaving the stamp of low cunning upon every one. The eye was large and grey, and very restless; always in motion; always attempting to convey more than the inner man would answer for, or the observer take for granted. It had a volubility of expression like his tongue, and both bespoke their owner no efficient actor.

"You look magnificent to-night," said Sinclair, addressing the general after my introduction.

"So, so, with slender opportunities!" said the general. "See us in London, my young friend. No place in the world like London for the exercise of a man's genius—a woman's it should be said, to-night, for Elinor is the presiding genius here. Have you ever seen these flowers? Pretty, eh? Her handiwork."

Sinclair trifled for a moment with an exquisite specimen of artificial flowers, adorning an alabaster vase; but he gave no answer.

"Have you seen her to-night?" continued the general.

"Not yet."

"She's with the Indian Yahoo, no doubt. He arrived this afternoon, and she will give him no rest. She has engaged him for the first four quadrilles, that she may hear the natural history of the Chimpanzee without interruption, which her cousin has promised to relate to her at the first convenient opportunity."

"Her cousin has arrived then?" asked Sinclair, turning slightly pale.

"This very day. Our information is quite correct. His mother, the Begum, is dead, and has left him enough in jewels to purchase an empire. The specie found in chests is immense. A lucky dog, with that brown face of his! If it were as black as soot, he might command a duchess. Elinor and he are first cousins, and are much attached, although they haven't seen each other for years."

As the general spoke, music struck up, and a movement in our immediate neighbourhood announced the approach of dancers. Amongst them was a young and lovely woman. Her arm was in that of a small man, with a copper-coloured face and disgusting features. His beautiful partner, more beautiful by the contrast, looked proud of her prize, which, if I correctly interpreted the admiring gaze of the assembly, was coveted for one reason or another by every dowager and unmarried woman in the room. I felt an instinctive longing to smother the Yahoo.

Inexpressibly lovely looked Elinor Travis, as she gracefully led off the merry dance. She had reached her twentieth year, and was in the full glory of her womanhood. Tall, yet exquisitely moulded, she left nothing for fancy to desire or imagination to create. Her dark and animated eye sparkled with living joy, and her perfect features were illuminated by its fire. I had never before beheld a creature so richly endowed with natural gifts; one who united in her person so much grace, sculpture, and expression; and yet, strange to say, the feeling all inspired was the very opposite to that which might have been expected. The consciousness of beauty was too definitely written upon that brow. That melting eye had inherited too much of the worldliness that played about the eager vision of her sire. Maidenly modesty and retirement were wanting to elevate and dignify mere voluptuousness. I was repulsed rather than attracted by a form, which, had it been more feminine, might have served for an angel; and as it was, was not sufficiently divine for a mortal woman. Such was my first impression, formed almost upon the instant. It never was removed.

Sinclair and I looked on. The spirits of Elinor were exuberant. She laboured as it seemed, under more than ordinary excitement. She laughed and chatted with her tawny partner with a delight which it was impossible for such a copper monster to create. The gaiety of the lady had but one effect upon her partner. At short intervals he opened his jaws and exhibited his teeth to the company. Having rivalled a hyena in the hideousness of his grin, he closed the jaws and hid his molars. Far different was the effect upon another. It took but a very little time to discover that Rupert Sinclair had not been proof against the charms of this darling of nature. His heart had felt her witchery, and his spirit was enchained—not utterly and irretrievably, I fondly trusted, for I knew his worth, and could not willingly entrust him to such doubtful keeping. Elinor Travis was not the wife for Rupert Sinclair. Thanks to the Yahoo, my fears at first were not alarming; still it was vexatious enough to behold the pain with which Sinclair evidently regarded the good fortune of the Indian, and the complacency with which the monster received the favour of one of the loveliest of her sex. Once during the dance, the change of the figure brought the lady within a few feet of Sinclair. Her back was towards him, but, as if aware of his vicinity, she turned round and cast the lustre of her full eye upon him. She smiled, and archly nodded. Rupert shook like a leaf; the colour mounted to his cheek, and his heart beat almost audibly. I grew alarmed. My faith in the Yahoo was shaken, and I trembled for my friend. The position of the dancers was again reversed. Elinor faced us. Her eye once more was fixed upon Rupert, but this time, as I believed, exulting in triumph. Could it be possible that she was aware of her influence, and that she inhumanly trifled with this man's affection? What meant that ardent gaze and that triumphant smile? As the general had informed us, so it happened. The Yahoo danced four quadrilles with Elinor, and then vouchsafed the loan of his blackness to other ladies for the rest of the evening. Miss Travis being at liberty, I proposed to Rupert an adjournment to our hotel. The gentleman, in answer, started up and secured the hand of Elinor for the next dance. His chair at my side was filled on the instant by the general himself. I listened and replied to the questions of the latter as well as I could, watching every movement, step, and gesture of the young sorcerer and her victim.

"Your friend, Mr Wilson, is not so gay as usual. What has happened?"

"Nothing."

"You return to London, I believe, in"——

The general paused.

"Mr Sinclair's leave of absence," I answered, "will soon expire."

"A gentle-spirited man, Mr Wilson. He does you credit."

"He owes me little, general," I answered. "Providence has been bountiful to him."

"Strange! And his father, they say, is as great a brute."

"Lord Railton," I said, "is not so amiable as his son."

"Proud and overbearing! But a magnificent rent-roll though! His son does not appear a man of the world. Vastly good-natured, but he wants fire and character."

"Mr Sinclair does not do himself justice," I replied. "There is more in him than meets the eye."

"You are a scholar, Mr Wilson," suddenly exclaimed the general, "and can appreciate a literary curiosity. Do me the favour to accompany me to my study. I have a Greek manuscript which I picked up in Samaria, and which they tell me is invaluable."

Before I could reply, the general was on his legs, and conducting me to his room. The dance was still proceeding.

"I am a simple man, sir," said the general when we reached the apartment, "and very moderate in my desires. We are often called avaricious when we are simply prudent. I despise wealth but for the sake of my children. There," he exclaimed suddenly, showing me a jewel-case—"there's stuff that would buy up Bath."

"Indeed!"

"What do you imagine this to be, Mr Wilson?" next inquired the general, holding up a folded letter.

"I cannot guess!" said I.

"An offer of a peerage. Why should I accept it? I have no son, and am without personal ambition. The world do not give men credit for such self-denial. You are a constant visitor at Sackville Park, I presume?"

"No, in truth. I have been there but once."

"Lady Railton doats upon her son, I believe?"

"A very fond mother," I replied.

The general eyed me suspiciously, and went no further; but he produced forthwith his manuscript from Samaria. It was really a curiosity in its way, being a transcript of one of the gospels in a dialect which I had never before seen, and of which, I think, but few specimens can remain. But I had a fidgety desire to get back to the ball-room, which prevented any thing like a satisfactory inspection of the precious document.

"Shall we return, general?" I asked.

"By all means," said the general, evincing at the same time no disposition to budge. "I trust, Mr Wilson," he continued, "that you will be no stranger at our house. We are humble people, as you see us, but we have friends at court. A man of your talents should command preferment; but these are sad times, and the best fare ill enough without a helping hand. I stand well with the premier."

"No doubt, deservedly," said I. "You have probably seen much service, general?"

"A little, a little;" replied the soldier with mock humility. "But as to yourself, Mr Wilson, they must make a bishop of you."

"Oh, general!" said I with unnecessary modesty.

"Ah, but I say they must! Leave that to me. We want sound and good men like yourself at the head of the church. Methodism must be put down. It is increasing frightfully. Vigorous and learned men are required to cope with it."

"Methodism," said I, with becoming warmth, "is undoubtedly a great curse to the church at the present moment, and every honest churchman is bound, to the extent of his ability, to oppose its further progress."

"My own words, Mr Wilson; and I beg you not to suspect me of flattery when I tell you that half a dozen men like yourself would do more to bring back a salutary state of things than any legal enactments they could contrive. Sinclair has told me of your energy, high honour, and attainments, and it would be a sin to suffer them to be inactive."

I confess I shall never forgive myself for having patiently, nay somewhat greedily, swallowed such monstrous and glaring trash as that above related, and for having been cajoled by it into spending one long half hour with my wily general in his study. I left the room at length, in a state of heroic excitement, and in time to discover that Rupert Sinclair and his partner had quitted the apartment in which I had previously left them.

There remained upon my mind no longer a doubt of Rupert's attachment to this lovely woman, and I contemplated its issue with no feeling of gratification or delight. Notwithstanding the agreeable communications of the general, I could not thoroughly trust him; and as for the young lady herself, as I have already hinted, she was as adapted to the mild nature of Sinclair as a lioness to a lamb. What would Lord Railton say to the match? What would Lady Railton do, with her sublimated notions of marquises and dukes? I deplored the ill luck that had brought us to Bath, and resolved to carry the youth back whilst he still remained master of his actions. But where was he? I sought him in vain in every public room of the house. Neither he nor the syren could be found. Vexed and hurt, although I scarcely knew why, I determined to quit the place, and to return to the hotel. Attached to the general's house was a spacious pleasure garden, and upon the occasion of this fête it was studded with a number of small lamps, which cast a picturesque and oriental gleam in parts, leaving the remaining portion of the ground in deeper shade. The night was lovely. Passing the door that led into the garden, I turned into the latter, almost without a thought. Visitors were there before me, and to escape them I retired into the gloom. Within a few yards of me passed the pair of whom I had been in search. The arm of Sinclair was twined around the waist of Elinor, and his head was bent on the ground. They advanced, and were soon beyond my ken. I still heard their steps; but suddenly these ceased. The lovers had stopped, and to my great discomfort they spoke.

"You do not know him," said a voice that did no dishonour to the coral lips through which it came. "His heart is fixed upon this hated match."

"You smiled upon him, Elinor," said Rupert, in a voice of emotion; "you gave him hope."

"For your sake, Sinclair, I smiled upon the man I hated; for your dear sake. The least suspicion of the truth, and we are ruined. I cannot have you banished from me."

"What is to be done?" exclaimed Rupert in despair.

I could hear no more. The voices dissolved into whispers, and these soon ceased. The fate of Rupert Sinclair was sealed.

Now, what was my course at this alarming crisis? What steps did it behove me—the friend, tutor, and counsellor of Rupert Sinclair—to take at such a moment as this, when the happiness of his whole life was about to be decided? Was there, in fact, any thing to do? Had not Sinclair already reached that point at which remonstrance is vain, and advice impertinent? And why should I remonstrate at all? What had I to say against a union with a lovely and accomplished woman, whose father had perhaps wealth enough to buy off the prejudices of Lord and Lady Railton, had they been ten times as bigoted as they really were? What could I produce against the young lady herself but a prejudice formed at first sight, and perhaps as unfounded as it had been hastily adopted? Was not Sinclair old enough to select his partner for himself; and when did interference in the delicate affairs of love ever lead to any thing but the confusion of the intruder, and the acceleration of the mischief he absurdly hoped to prevent? I was at the height of my perplexity when Sinclair returned to me. I heard his footsteps at the door, and immediately plunged into my bedroom.

Next morning I was awake betimes, but Rupert was up before me. Indeed, when I beheld him, I doubted whether he had been to rest at all. He looked haggard and distressed. I took my cue from his downcast appearance.

"Rupert," said I, "it is my intention to quit Bath."

"When?" he inquired.

"Possibly to-day. To-morrow at the furthest."

Rupert sighed.

"We return together, I presume?" said I in continuation.

"Wilson," answered Rupert, in a tone of kindness, "I have never deceived you yet; I will not deceive you now. Nor shall you suffer in any way from acts of mine. I cannot leave this place. It is not expedient that you should stay."

"Your leave of absence soon expires," I said.

"I shall not fail to be at my duty, Wilson," continued Sinclair. "But there is important business to do before I leave this city."

"You have entered, Rupert, into some rash engagement."

"Into an engagement—yes; not rashly, I believe; for I have held consultation with my heart—deep, earnest communings, that have sanctioned my fondest inclination."

"Beware, Sinclair!" I answered. "In some cases, the heart is no safe monitor; and inclination and conviction become convertible terms."

"You know my secret, Wilson."

"I can guess it."

"You saw her last night. I wished you to see her. I desired to hear from your lips a confirmation of the regard she has inspired in one"——

I shook my head.

"You are right—you are right," proceeded Sinclair, hastily. "You shall not speak. You shall not even tell me how divine a being Heaven has placed within my reach. You shall not be involved in the calamity which an irrevocable act may bring upon two whose crime it is to love too well."

"Rupert," I replied, "I am not disposed to desert you at so critical a period of our life. We are both young. You are enthusiastic; your good opinion of mankind has before now led you into error. Have you well pondered on this step? Can you rely on Elinor Travis."

"What do you mean?"

"Is she as brave as she is gentle—as faithful as she is fair?"

"I would answer for her with my life."

"Yes, or with twenty lives, if you had them, for the venture. Yet you have not known her long."

"Long enough to value and to love her. Does it require an age to discover truthfulness so palpable as hers?"

"I have done, Sinclair," said I. "God grant you may be happy!"

"You return to London, then?"

"Such is my intention."

"You do wisely. I would not have you stay with me. You must be clear from all participation in this business, let it end as it may. I know my father. His anger and his vengeance, however undeserved, would fall on you."

"Would these were my greatest fears!" I answered, with a sigh.

"Fear not for me, Wilson. The happiness of your friend is bound up with that of Elinor Travis. I tell you, in all sincerity, I cannot live without her. Fate decrees our movements. No woman but she has made me conscious of that great fountain of love which lies within the bosom of us all—none has had power to direct the stream, and to enchain me, heart and soul, to her will."

"And should that will," I quickly urged, "be found as evil as resistless"——

"Prove it so, and its power ceases on the instant. No; it is resistless, because virtuous and pure. I submit to an enchantment, but it is practised by a fairy as good as she is beautiful."

It was useless to argue so abstruse a point with so interested and impassioned a reasoner. I remained silent.

"One promise I must exact from you," continued Sinclair. "In passing through London, you will not see my father."

"I shall not wait upon his lordship," I replied.

"Nor mention, if you please, one syllable of this affair, should chance bring you together. For the present, I have sufficient reasons for wishing you to keep my secret sacred. In good time all will be known."

"You shall be obeyed, of course."

"Thanks," said Sinclair, grasping my hand, and holding it affectionately: "all will be well, I trust."

For the rest of the day, the subject was not revived. I begged Sinclair to follow his own pleasure, without reference to me, and to leave me to the few arrangements necessary before departure. He insisted, however, upon spending the last day with me; and during many hours of well-remembered intercourse, he evinced a friendliness and affectionate regard such as I had never before experienced—even from him. We sat together until the early hour of morning chid us to our beds.

"There is still one thing to say," said Sinclair, when we parted for the night, "and it had better be communicated now. Heaven knows, Wilson, when and where shall be our next meeting. It may be soon; it may be never. Death to one of us—a hundred circumstances may interfere between our hopes and their fruition. I have desired to tell you, many times, what I am sure you will not hear unkindly, although the fear of offending you has kept me silent. Yet, you ought to know it. I am sure your peace of mind will be secured when you know that the present enjoyments of your mother can, under no circumstances, ever be decreased. I have taken care, should any thing happen to yourself or me, that her latter days shall remain as peaceful as you, her faithful son, have rendered them."

I would have spoken to my friend and benefactor, but could not. I shook his hand cordially, and an honest tear told him my gratitude. So we parted, as I half feared for ever; for his words and actions were full of evil omen.

Upon reaching my bedroom on this eventful evening, the first thing that caught my eye was a mysterious document lying on the table—a lady's note. "A mistake," thought I, approaching the unusual visitor. Not so; it was addressed to me. I opened it, and read. It ran as follows:—

"Dear sir—Pardon my abruptness. As a friend of Mr Rupert Sinclair, I entreat five minutes' conversation. I shall be at home to-morrow at noon. Pray, come. His happiness depends upon your punctuality. Keep this communication secret.—Yours, &c.,

"Charlotte Twisleton."

The plot was thickening with a vengeance. What could this mean? And what was I to do? Clearly to wait upon the lady, as directed, to postpone my departure, to forfeit my fare, and to mix myself deeper than ever in a mystery, which, trusting to appearances, was likely to end in the ruin of Mr Rupert Sinclair, and his more luckless tutor. Taking care to avoid Sinclair in the morning, I directed his servant to acquaint him with my change of views; and quitted the hotel some hour or two before the time fixed for the anxious interview. Punctually at noon, I presented myself at Mrs Twisleton's door. My alarm was intense when I reached that lady's apartment. She had evidently been waiting my arrival with extreme impatience. Before I could speak or bow, she rushed towards me, and exclaimed—

"Is it over, sir? Is he gone?"

"What over, madam?" I answered. "Who gone?"

"Mr Sinclair. Is he married?"

"Married?"

"Yes. Married. They are to be, if they are not already. Take him to town, sir. Drag him away. We shall be ruined."

I had thought so for the last four-and-twenty hours; but I had certainly not included Mrs Twisleton in the calculation.

"Mr Thompson," continued the lady, forgetting my name in her anxiety, "Lord Railton will go raving mad if this should come about. We shall all be punished. I know him well. You, for having brought Mr Sinclair here; I, for having introduced him to the impostors; and himself for having been caught in their snares. And he is a powerful man, and has the means to punish us."

He had certainly the means of punishing Mrs Twisleton; for her son, at college, had been already promised the next presentation to a valuable living in Yorkshire. Her fears on my account were hardly so well founded.

"Look here, Mr Wilson," said Mrs Twisleton, hurrying to her writing-desk, and taking from it a letter, which she placed in my hands. "Read that."

I ran my eye over the document. It was from a female correspondent in London and it conjured Mrs Twisleton to avoid all connexion whatever with General Travis and his too fascinating family. The general was described as a bold bad man, utterly ruined, involved beyond the possibility of recovery, a mere hanger-on of fashion, an adventurer. His wife was spoken of as a mere simple instrument in his hand; naturally disposed to goodness, but perverted by the cruel necessity of her position. But what said this timely—oh, if but timely!—informer respecting her whose name I greedily sought out in these disastrous pages? I grew sick as I proceeded in the narrative. Elinor Travis—so said the letter—was a clever, subtle, accomplished, and designing woman. Numerous had been her flirtations, not few her conquests; but the game she had brought down, it had never been worth the general's while to bag. The general had been a great traveller. He had passed some years in India. During his residence there, the fair fame of Elinor Travis had been—oh, horror!—sullied; falsely so, some said; but still sullied. She had loved an officer with whom, it was reported—I read no more.

"The writer of this letter, madam," I asked—"is she trustworthy?"

"Alas! alas! yes," exclaimed Mrs Twisleton, in despair.

"It must be prevented by all and every means," I continued.

"We are still safe then?"

"Yes, although I cannot answer for an hour. He must be spoken to, remonstrated with"——

"Threatened," added Mrs Twisleton, stamping with her foot. "Any thing to save us."

"I will appeal to his reason."

"Then we are lost," said the lady, emphatically. "That family never listened to reason yet."

"Do you know," I enquired, "this great foreigner whom they call the Yahoo?"

"Oh, no! no!" exclaimed Mrs Twisleton, shaking her head impatiently. "I don't know any of them. I disown them all; they are all impostors. I said so from the beginning. Oh, Mr Wilson, what can he have to do with it? How can you talk so idly?"

"Mrs Twisleton," said I, "have I your permission to communicate the contents of this letter to Mr Sinclair?"

"Yes, but never mention my name in the matter. Take the address of the writer, and communicate with her yourself. Save your friend, and make your fortune. Get us all well out of the scrape, and then depend upon me for speaking about you to his lordship. He shall know the part you have played; and no man can be more generous than Lord Railton when the fit is on him."

"Do not trouble yourself, madam, on my account," I replied. "This letter I will borrow, with your leave, for awhile. There is not a moment to lose. The next hour may prove fatal to the interests of our unfortunate friend."

I had not spoken before Mrs Twisleton pulled the bell violently, shook my hand eagerly, and urged me to the door. Within ten minutes, I was face to face with Sinclair.

"Sinclair," said I, "you must return to London with me."

"What has happened, then?" he inquired.

"You stand on a precipice," I continued. "Advance but another step, and you are lost."

"Translate your language, friend," said Rupert, "and suffer me at least to understand you."

"You are mistaken, Sinclair—cruelly deceived."

"What, again?" he asked, with a smile.

"Yes, again and again. No experience teaches you. No conviction reaches your judgment. Will you listen to me, and believe me?"

"I will listen to you."

"The family of General Travis are not what you suppose them. I can prove them unworthy your confidence and affection. Will you link your fate with that of one who"——

I hesitated.

"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."

I sighed.

"And now you have come to Bath again, what do you mean to do?"

I thought for a second or two, and then sighed again.

"Take my advice, sir; it's a woman's, but not the worse for that. If you stay here till doomsday, you can't alter what is unalterable. The fool's married by this time. The general has broken up his establishment and has decamped!"

"Impossible!"

"That may be, but what I tell you is the truth, nevertheless. The mail leaves Bath at eleven o'clock. Return by it to London. See Lord Railton as soon as you arrive. Make the best you can of this wretched business, and prepare him to meet his son without a curse. You need not tell him all you know about the general. He will find that out quickly enough; nor need you mention my insignificant name at all. The old man has feeling left in him; and the mother doats upon her namby-pamby boy. Obtain their pardon for your friend, and you will do that friend a service which he will never forget, and can never sufficiently repay."

I reflected for a moment; the advice seemed sound. I determined to adopt it. Bewildered and vexed, I quitted the lady's house, and walked mechanically about the town, from street to street. An hour or two were yet at my disposal—heavy, irritating hours, converted into ages by my impatience and anxiety. Chance or fate conducted me to the abode of General Travis. I stopped before the door, as purposeless as I had just approached it. To curse the hour that had connected poor Sinclair with the proprietor of that late magnificent and extravagant establishment, was a natural movement. I cursed, and proceeded on my walk. I had not, however, advanced a few steps, before, looking back, I became aware of a light gleaming from one of the windows of the house. I returned. Some information might be gained from the servant left in charge of the place; possibly a clue to the mystery in which, without any valid reason, I had myself become entangled. I found the door of the mansion ajar. I knocked, but no one answered; I repeated the summons with as little success, and then I walked boldly in—and up-stairs, in order to place myself at once in communication with the apartment in which I had perceived the faint illumination. Opening the drawing-room door, I perceived, as much to my disgust as astonishment—the Yahoo!

That dark gentleman was drunk; there was no doubt of it. He was sitting at a table that was literally covered with food, of which he had taken to repletion. His coat was off, so was his cravat, and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned. Perspiration hung about his cheeks, and his face looked very oily. Decanters of wine were before him; a pewter jug of ale; and bottles containing more or less of ardent spirits. There was a wild expression in his eye, but the general glow of his visage was one of fuddled sottishness. He saluted me with a grin.

"Who the debil are you?" he politely asked.

"I was looking," I answered, "for a servant."

"D—n him serbant," exclaimed the Yahoo, speaking in his drunkenness like a very nigger. "I gib him a holyday. What are you got to say to dat? What do you want?" he proceeded. "Sit down. Enjoy yerself. What do you take? Deblish good rum, and no mistake."

Hold a candle to the Devil is a worldly maxim, which I had never an opportunity of practising to the letter until now. Much might be learned by humoring the monster—nothing by opposing him. I sat down and drank his health.

"Thankee, old boy," said he. "I'm deblish glad to see you, upon my soul. Gib us your hand. How many are you got?"

"Two," said I.

"That's a lie," replied the nigger hastily. "I see four. But neber mind, I'm not partickler. Gib us two of 'em. I say, old boy," he continued, "don't you eat nothing? D——d sweet. Sure to make you sick. Him drink much as him like."

"You wait the general's return, I presume?" said I, in the vain hope of eliciting something from this black moving barrel.

The gentleman tried to look me full in the face; but his eyes rolled involuntarily, and prevented him. He contrived, however, to effect what he intended for a knowing wink, whilst he thrust out his cheek with the end of his tongue.

"Oh yes, in course," he answered. "I wait till him come back. Him wait d——d long while. He! he! he!"

"His departure was very sudden," I continued.

"Oh, bery! All them departure's bery sudden. Missy General go bery sudden—Missy Elinor go bery sudden—rum go bery sudden," he concluded, drinking off a glassful.

"I saw the general to-day. We met on the road. He told me every thing."

"Stupid old codger! Him can't keep his own counsel. Dat him business, not mine. Deblish cleber old codger!"

"He was much affected," said I. "The elopement of his child is a serious blow to him."

The nigger performed the same pantomime as before; winking his eye, and enlarging his cheek.

"Blow not so bad as a punch on the head, old boy. Deblish cleber old codger," repeated the Yahoo, laughing immoderately. "Deblish cleber 'Gustus too!"

"Who is he?" I inquired.

The nigger attempted to rise in his chair, and to make a profound bow, but failed in both attempts.

"I'm 'Gustus!" said he, "at your sarvice—take a glass of wine with you!"

I pledged the gentleman, and he continued.

"You know Massa Sinclair?"

"A little."

"Big jackass, Massa Sinclair. Awful big. He no run away with Missy Elinor, Missy run away with him. Massa General run away with both. 'Gustus do it all."

I groaned.

"You ain't well? Take glass rum? Bery good rum!"

"And so you did it all, Augustus? You must be a clever fellow!"

"I think so. If you could but have seen us this morning. I and Massa General looking over the banisters whilst Missy Elinor was running away; and Massa Sinclair in de hall, trembling all over like a ninny, for fear Massa General should see him—Massa General and me splitting sides all the time. D——d good! like a play. He! he! he!"

I groaned again.

"Sure you are not well, old boy? Try the bitters."

"I have had enough," said I. "I must begone."

"Don't hurry, old fellow. Can't ask you again. Go to town to-morrow. Meet General Travis to-morrow night. Him sewed up. 'Gustus neber desert him."

"The general will not return then?"

"Him too good judge!"

"And Mr Sinclair and the lady?"

"They married by this time. I say, old boy, let's drink their health."

"No, no, no. Tell me whither do they go!"

"No, no, no!—I say yes, yes, yes," roared the intoxicated monster. "Drink it, you rascal," he added, "or I'll kick you down stairs."

My blood was boiling in a moment. The nigger staggered to me, and touched the collar of my coat. His hand was scarcely there, before I took him by the neck, and flung him like a loathsome reptile from me. He fell at the foot of the table, but in his passage to the ground he grasped a decanter of wine, which he hurled at my head. It passed me, met the door, and flew in a thousand pieces about the room. Sick at heart, I took the opportunity to retire.

Never shall I forget the morning upon which I stood in Grosvenor Square, knocker in hand, about to present myself before the father of Rupert Sinclair, and to acquaint him with the disgrace that had come to his family, by the alliance of the previous day. The feelings of the hour return with all their painful vividness as I recall the time. A lazy porter, richly attired, opened the door, and rang a bell in the hall, which brought to me his lordship's valet. The latter received my card, and after a quarter of an hour's absence, returned with the information, that his lordship was particularly busy with the Director of the Opera, and could not be seen by any one that morning. Every little circumstance is indelibly imprinted on my memory, stamped there by the peculiar anxiety under which I laboured. I respectfully submitted that my business was even more important than that of the Director, and requested the valet to return with my urgent request to his lordship for one short interview.

"His lordship doesn't know you," said the valet.

"Not know me!" I exclaimed, forgetting at the moment how little it was to his lordship's interest to remember me. "There," I exclaimed "take this card to him." I had written upon it—Late tutor to the Hon. Rupert Sinclair.

Another quarter of an hour, and I was admitted. His lordship was evidently angry at the interruption. My heart was fluttering. He extended to me one finger, by way of compromise, which I reverently touched, offered me no seat, but asked me my business.

I began—continued—and ended without the least hinderance on his lordship's part. I spoke without reserve of my own share in the unfortunate business, taking particular care, however, not to say one word to the disparagement of Elinor, or that might unneccessarily excite Lord Railton against his erring son. I told him of Rupert's illness, of our having proceeded to Bath in company—of his recovery—his meeting with Elinor—her beauty—his devotion. I pleaded his youth, his ardent nature—referred to the past as irretrievable, to the future as full of happiness for Mr Sinclair, provided his lordship would look with forgiving kindness upon his act; and used all the eloquence I could command to move what I conceived to be at least a heart of flesh to pity and sympathy for its own blood and offspring.

Lord Railton heard me to the end, with a knitted brow and closed lips. When I had finished, he asked me sternly if I had any thing more to say.

"Nothing," I replied.

Whereupon his lordship rang the bell.

The valet again appeared.

Lord Railton again held out his finger, as at our meeting. I was about to take it, when his lordship moved it quickly—pointed to the door—and said—"Show that person out!"

For a second I stood astounded and confused. In another second I found myself breathing on the sunny side of Grosvenor Square. How I reached it, I no longer remember.