The interview between the disconsolate parent and the youthful offenders is adverted to in the letter which I received from Rupert Sinclair in London early in the honeymoon. It is many years since it was written: the paper is discoloured, and the ink fading. It is the effusion of a fond and enthusiastic youth; but it looks mournful and dried up, more like the decaying writing on the rolls of a mummy than the ardent outpourings of a recent passion. Alack for the mutability of life! I have no apologies to make for giving the letter as it stands. It speaks for itself: its publication cannot harm the dead.
"Dearest Walter—Congratulate me! wish me joy! But no greater joy than I experience at this hour, with the sunny and smiling heaven above, and in the possession of a treasure of which no man living can rob me: of which I am prouder than Alexander could have been of all his conquered worlds. She is mine! I have ventured much for the prize; yet little—for I feel I could have parted with every thing in life for her who is to me—life, every thing. She is mine! Oh the comprehensiveness of that one little word! Mine whilst existence lasts—mine to cherish and uphold—mine for earth and heaven! We walked this morning to the placid lake which lies hidden in the heart of the mountains, to which we have retreated for a season away from the envious eyes of men. The waters were as calm as at the dawn of the first sabbath! The sky that overarched us looked down upon them in unutterable love. The slightest breath that crept amongst the trees was audible. Her arm was upon mine. Nature had attuned my soul to the surrounding harmony—the gentlest pressure of her confiding hand oppressed me with joy and moved me to tears. Laugh at me if you will. You answer to all this—that I dream. Be it so:—That I must soon awake. It is possible. Nay, I grant you that this foretaste of heaven, now vouchsafed to me, must pass away and leave behind it only the remembrance of this golden epoch. Still the remembrance is mine, the undying memory of a vision unparalleled by all other dreams of life.
"I have written to my father, but he replies not. He has no sympathy for attachments such as mine, and cannot understand the bitterness of life caused by a blighted hope. But he will relent. He has a noble nature, and will take no delight in my unhappiness. My mother's influence is unbounded. She loves me, and will plead my cause with him, when the first paroxysm of anger has passed away, and has left him open to her sway. I will take my Elinor to her; her innocence and beauty would melt a stubborn heart to pity. Shall it not prevail with her whose heart is ours already by the ties of holiest nature? Believe me, I have no fear of Lord Railton's lasting anger.
"The general reached us the day after we were married. Happily for me that he arrived not before. Elinor, as I have told you often, reveres her father, and has a chivalric sense of filial obligations. Had he commanded her to return to his roof whilst the right to command remained with him, she would have deemed it her paramount duty to obey him. His rage was terrible when we met; I had never seen a man so plunged in grief before. He accused me of treachery—of having betrayed his confidence—and taken advantage of his daughter's simplicity and warm affection. The world, he said, would reproach him for an act which he would have moved heaven and earth to prevent, and the reputation of the family would be blasted by the conduct of one, who, but for his own base deed, should have remained for ever a stranger to it. What could I reply to this? For my dear Elinor's sake, I bore his cruel words, and answered not. Her gentle spirit has already prevailed. He quitted us this morning reconciled to our union, and resolved to stand by us in all extremities. There was no resisting the appeal of beauty such as hers. The old man wept like a child upon her neck as he forgave and blest her. Urgent business carries the general abroad for a season, but he returns to England shortly, to make arrangements for the future. Meanwhile, in obedience to his earnest request, I shall seek an interview with my father, and in person entreat his forgiveness and aid. My plans are unsettled, and necessarily depend upon the conduct of Lord Railton. Let me hear from you, dearest Wilson. Once more wish me joy. I ask no better fate for you than happiness such as mine.
"Your faithful and devoted
"Rupert Sinclair."
The honeymoon over, Rupert Sinclair repaired to his father's house. Since his marriage he had received no tidings of his parents: he had written to his father and mother, but from neither came one syllable of acknowledgment or reply. It was strange, but he relied with unshaken confidence upon his power over the fond mother's heart, and upon the magic influence of that loveliness which he himself had found resistless and invincible. The blissful dream was a short one; he was about to be roused from it. Elinor and he were in town: upon the morning of his visit to Grosvenor Square, they sat together in their hotel and weaved their bright and airy plans in syllables more unsubstantial than the gossamer.
"You will love my mother, my dearest Elinor," said Sinclair. "The great world, in which she acts no unimportant part, has not spoiled her affections. She is indulgent and fond almost to a fault."
"I shall love her for your sake, Rupert," answered the lovely wife. "How like she is!" she exclaimed, looking at a miniature which she wore around her neck, and then comparing it with the living countenance that beamed upon her. "Yet," she continued with a sigh, "she owes me no return of love."
"And wherefore?"
"Have I not stolen her most cherished treasure?"