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."