THE LADY OF THE ISLE;
OR,
THE ISLAND PRINCESS.
BY
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; OR, THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A BEAUTIFUL
FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “CHANGED BRIDES,” “TRIED FOR
HER LIFE,” “BRIDE’S FATE,” “WIDOW’S SON,” “A NOBLE LORD,” “CRUEL AS THE
GRAVE,” “FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “LOST HEIRESS,” “FAMILY
DOOM,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,”
“FALLEN PRIDE,” “VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE SPECTRE
LOVER,” “MAIDEN WIDOW,” “TWO SISTERS,” “BRIDAL EVE,” “FAIR PLAY,” “THE
FATAL MARRIAGE,” “PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,”
“MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “DESERTED WIFE,” “INDIA,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S
VICTORY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,”
“VIVIA,” “LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” ETC.
“_’Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange,
Stranger than fiction. If it could be told,
How much would fiction gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!_”—BYRON.
“_With caution judge of probability,
Things deemed unlikely, e’en impossible,
Experience oft hath proven to be true._”—SHAKSPEARE.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
A WORD TO THE READER.
In offering you this, the most singular romance that I have ever
written, I feel constrained to say, that the most remarkable characters
and incidents here exhibited, are drawn from well-known persons and
events of real life. These circumstances are here presented with only
such judicious change of times, places, and proper names, as is dictated
by the prudence and delicacy which also withholds me from pointing out
more definitely the sources whence they were derived.
E. D. E. N. S.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. An Interrupted Wedding, 29
II. The Arrested Bride, 72
III. The World, 89
IV. Estelle, 102
V. The Assizes, 123
VI. The Arraignment, 134
VII. The Flight of Estelle, 156
VIII. The Forsaken, 166
IX. Shipwreck, 179
X. Recognition of the Dead Body, 196
XI. His Majesty the King of the Isle, 203
XII. The Skipper’s Daughter, 228
XIII. The Island Princess, 238
XIV. Barbara Brande, 248
XV. The Girl-Captain, 264
XVI. Pursuit, 279
XVII. Captain Barbara’s First Voyage, 285
XVIII. The Recluse, 298
XIX. The Grave-Yard Ghost, 314
XX. Lord Montressor’s Arrival, 327
XXI. The Last Struggle, 334
XXII. Julius Luxmore, 348
XXIII. Etoile L’Orient, 354
XXIV. Barbara’s Voyage, 375
XXV. Glorious Uncertainty of the Law, 383
XXVI. Christmas in the Village, 397
XXVII. Christmas in the Desolate House, 402
XXVIII. The Evening Feast, 410
XXIX. Captain Barbara may be a Baroness, 420
XXX. Captain Barbara’s Second Voyage, 428
XXXI. The Dreary Headland, 439
XXXII. The Flight from the Headland, 451
XXXIII. The Passage of Years, 456
XXXIV. The Heiress of the Isle, 460
XXXV. Euthanasy, 465
XXXVI. Etoile comes into her Estate, 469
XXXVII. Etoile Left Alone, 474
XXXVIII. The Solitary Maiden, 479
XXXIX. Estelle’s Home, 486
XL. Meeting with an Old Friend, 507
XLI. A Waiting Bride, 515
XLII. What the Sea gave to Etoile, 529
XLIII. Love, 538
XLIV. The Attempted Flight of Etoile, 546
XLV. The Rivals, 557
XLVI. Plots and Counter Plots, 569
XLVII. The Re-union, 593
THE
LADY OF THE ISLE.
CHAPTER I.
AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING.
All! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, that but an hour before
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness!
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!—_Byron._
It was the first of May, the marriage day of the Viscount Montressor, of
Montressor Castle, Dorsetshire, and Estelle, only daughter and heiress
of Sir Parke Morelle, Hyde Hall, Devonshire.
A glorious morning! the cloudless, blue sky smiled down upon the green
hills and dewy dales and deep woods of Devon; and the park around the
Hall was all alive and musical with the joyous songs of birds, and the
merry laughter of young men and maidens gathering to celebrate their
May-day festival, and to do honor to the marriage of their landlord’s
daughter.
The elm-shaded, winding avenue that led from the highway to the house,
was arched at each terminus by a mammoth wreath of flowers, and many
were the carriages that passed under them, on their way to assist at the
wedding; and these contained only the bridesmaids, and the nearest
friends and relatives of the family, whose relationship or position gave
them the right to attend the bride to church;—for a still more numerous
party had been invited to meet her at the altar. The villagers and
tenants, grouped about under the shade of the great old trees, or
wandering over the greensward on either side of the grand avenue,
watched these equipages as they rolled on, commenting—as usual—
“That is Sir William Welworth’s carriage—he is the bride’s uncle by her
mother.”
“Who don’t know that?—Hush! my eyes! lend me a rumberrell, Joe, or I
shall be dazed blind, along o’ looking at this turn out! Whose is it?
since you know everything.”
“That?—that’s Lord Dazzleright’s—the great cove’s as made a fortin’ and
_riz by the law_—(not at a rope’s end, though, as _you’ll_ rise one of
these days, Bill, my lad, if you don’t keep out o’ the squire’s
preserves)—but by reading and pleading, and keeping on the right, do you
see, of the powers that be; until he got himself made a Baron of;—which
people _do_ say he’ll get upon the woolsack yet,” replied the
gamekeeper, Joe, as the splendid equipage of the new member of the house
of peers dashed past them.
“Yes; but what does he _he_ do here?” inquired the laborer, Bill.
“He’s the god-father of the bride, you know, besides being a bachelor
without children, I mean sons-and-heirs.”
“Here comes somethin’ like a huss—my granny! how solemncolly! who’s
comin’ to a funeral?”
“Oh let me see!—_that?_ why that’s the carriage of the old Duchess of
Graveminster, the grand-aunt of Lady Morelle. She was expected at the
hall yesterday; something must o’ stopped her,” said Joe, as a large,
sombre, dark-colored traveling carriage lumbered heavily past.
“What o’clock is it, Mr. Joe? you’re a weatherwise, and you can tell,”
inquired a young girl leaving a group of maidens and joining the two
men.
“What o’clock, my dear?” replied the gamekeeper, looking up at the sun
with an air of confidence. “Well, I should say it was just about a
quarter to ten.”
“Oh—dear me! and the weddingers won’t pass till nearly twelve! and here
we are to wait two mortal hours! and I want to be away at the Maypole so
much.”
“Hush! my darling; look! here comes his lordship’s carriage, itself,
just as sure as you’re the prettiest lass in the country,” whispered the
gamekeeper, as a very plain but handsome traveling carriage of dark
green, drawn by a pair of spirited grey horses, rolled on up the avenue
toward the Hall.
“_Whose_ Lordship’s? What are you thinking about, Mr. Joseph?” asked the
little maiden, fretfully.
“Why, _his_ Lordship’s! _The_ Lorship’s—the _only_ Lordship to be
thought about now, my dear! Lord _Montressor’s_ Lordship!”
“Now _that’s_ impossible, Mr. Joseph! If you _be_ gamekeeper, you
sha’n’t make game of _me_, at that rate. Lord Montressor! Marry-come-up!
What should _he_, of all men, be doing here at _this_, of all hours?”
“Come up to marry, I suppose. Anyhow it is _he_.”
“Nonsense! It can’t _be_, I tell you! It would be out of all manners!
Don’t I know? He’s to bring all his groomsmen, and _his_ friends and
relations to the _church_, and wait _there_ for Miss Morelle and her
friends and relations! _That’s_ manners.”
“I know it be!”
“That shows it can’t be Lord Montressor who drove past just now.”
“But I know _it be him_, also! Don’t I know his Lordship’s grey and
crimson liveries? and his co’t arms—the lion _couchant_, and the lady
_sittin on’t_? It’s _him_, now just as sure as you are just the sweetest
creetur in the world; but what I be thinking of is—_what’s to pay?_ It
looks like somethin’ was _on_regular!”
“Onreglar? I believe you! Who ever heard of such a thing?—if it _be_
Lord Montressor.”
It was Lord Montressor.
Early that morning a note from his affianced bride had been put in his
hands, summoning him to a private conference with her at the Hall before
they should proceed to the church. Surprised and filled with vague
uneasiness, his lordship lost no time in obeying the behest.
And it was really his carriage and liveries that passed.
Within the most secluded of her suite of richly-furnished apartments at
the old Hall, half buried in the depths of a cushioned chair, reclined
the bride expectant, in bridal array.
On her right, a gorgeous cheval mirror reflected in profile her
beautiful form.
On her left, through the rose-colored silk hangings of the half-open bay
window, wafted by the breeze, came glimpses of the pure blue sky and
tender green foliage of spring, scents of fragrant flowers, and sounds
of singing birds and innocent laughter, from the park.
She was alone, her attendants having, by her own desire, withdrawn.
Estelle Morelle—or “La belle Estelle,” “Beautiful Stella,” “the Midnight
Star”—as, for her resplendent dark beauty, she was poetically named—was
at this time twenty-five years of age, and more lovely than a poet’s or
an artist’s ideal. Her form was of medium height, and very slender,
though well-rounded, with a graceful head, over which fell rich masses
of jet-black, silken ringlets, shading a face of pure, pale olive
complexion, with large, mournful, dark eyes, habitually vailed by the
long, drooping lashes, and delicate, though full curved lips, ever
patiently closed as in silent resignation. The prevailing expression of
her dark, brilliant countenance was a profound melancholy.
The announcement of Miss Morelle’s approaching marriage with the
Viscount Montressor had created a profound sensation in the fashionable
and aristocratic circles. A peerless beauty, the only child and heiress
of the oldest, wealthiest and haughtiest baronet in the West of England,
her heart had been as much the object of aspiration to the youthful and
ardent, as her hand and fortune had been the end of desire to the
mercenary and ambitious.
At the early age of seven years, Estelle had been placed at one of the
first-class female institutions of learning at Paris, then as now,
considered among the very best of their kind in the world, and there had
been left to remain until her sixteenth year, when the sudden and
calamitous breaking up of the institution, and her own severe illness,
had occasioned her removal. That illness had been attended with marked
changes in the constitution and temperament of the young girl.
Estelle, previously the most careless, light-hearted and capricious of
children, left her chamber of convalescence a subdued, thoughtful,
melancholy woman! The laughing lips of girlhood closed in patient
sadness; the sparkling eyes sheathed their beams under long, shadowy
lashes, now seldom lifted; the silvery, elastic voice, sank into deep
and thrilling tones; the free, glad motions were measured and
controlled.
She never entered another school, but completed her education under the
best masters, at home. To dissipate what was considered a transient
melancholy, her parents traveled with her over Europe, pausing at each
capital and chief town, to show her all that was interesting and
instructive. But, though their daughter repaid their attentions with the
sweetest gratitude, and obeyed them with the gentlest docility, she
showed no interest in the passing scenes. And though everywhere her
extreme beauty and sweetness of disposition, not less than her fortune
and position, drew around her many friends and admirers, Estelle
remained alone in her isolated thoughts and feelings. Every most
distinguished physician in Europe had been consulted upon her case, and
the result of their wisdom was a decision that this melancholy was not
the effect of ill health, still less of secret sorrow, but that it was a
constitutional phase that would probably pass away with maturing years.
They returned to England, presented their daughter at court, and
introduced her into all the gayeties of fashionable life. But with no
happy effect upon the spirits of Estelle, who remained profoundly
unmoved amid the _eclat_ that greeted her _debut_. Her picturesque
beauty was the theme of all tongues—her mournful glance was
fascinating—her deep tones thrilling—her touch magnetic; all felt her
power, yet she who could move all others, remained unimpressed. She who
sought no conquests, for that very reason perhaps, made many. A peer and
two commoners, in succession, laid their fortunes at her feet, and were
in turn kindly and firmly rejected.
So passed her first season in London, at the close of which her parents
took her down to their seat in Devonshire. Here, in her thoughtful,
quiet, unostentatious manner, she engaged in works of benevolence among
the villagers and the tenantry. And her father, hoping much from this
employment, gave her full liberty of action, and smiled to see that she
seemed less pensive than before.
At the beginning of the parliamentary term, the family went up to
London.
And it was here in her second season in town that Estelle formed the
acquaintance of Lord Montressor, a young nobleman but lately acceded to
his titles and estates, but already known as a man of the most
high-toned moral and intellectual excellence, as a righteous as well as
a rising statesman, and as one, who in the event of a change of
ministry, would be likely to be called to fill a high official position
in His Majesty’s new cabinet. Aside from the glare of rank and wealth
and power, Charles Montressor was a glorious specimen of the Creator’s
workmanship. Above the average standard of height among his countrymen,
broad shouldered and deep-chested, with a noble head, and a face full of
wisdom and goodness, his appearance truly indicated the warm
benevolence, clear intelligence, and pure spirit of the man. His
presence soon inspired Estelle with a faith which she had not been able
to feel in any other that approached her. He drew nearer to her than any
other had been permitted to come; he crossed the magic circle of her
isolation and conversed with her as no other had been allowed to do. The
world looked and said that the beautiful Stella had at last met her
master and was conquered.
At this stage of affairs, the parliamentary term being over, Sir Park
Morelle and his family left London for Hyde Hall.
Lord Montressor asked and received permission to follow them, and in
less than a month availed himself of the privilege to do so. Thus it was
in the home of her ancestors, after having obtained the cordial sanction
of her parents, and believing himself sure of the affections of their
daughter, Lord Montressor offered his heart and hand to the lovely
Estelle, and was, to his profound astonishment, instantly and firmly
rejected! In thus rejecting his suit she wept long and bitterly, praying
his forgiveness, that the happiness she had experienced and exhibited in
his society should have betrayed him into making this declaration, and
beseeching him never to renew his suit; but to leave and forget her.
There was something in the tone of her refusal which confirmed and
deepened his previous conviction that—even in rejecting—she loved him!
But with his high-toned sentiments he would not in the least degree
presume upon that knowledge. Taking her hand with deferential
tenderness, he said—
“Stella!—a man never but once, in his whole existence, loves a woman as
I love you! I will not inquire the cause of the rejection, which you
have certainly a right to make without assigning any reason for the act.
And after having received this repulse, I may not in honor distress you
by a renewal of my suit. But this, in parting, I must say to you—that,
though I go hence, I shall not go out of the reach of your friends; I
shall never address another woman; so if ever in the course of future
weeks, or months, or years, however long, you may think proper to review
the decision of this evening, Stella, I implore you, do not hesitate to
let me know! Write but one word, ‘Come,’ and I return to lay an
unchanged heart at your feet!”
Estelle was weeping too bitterly to reply.
“Stella, will you promise to do this?”
“Lord Montressor, best and dearest friend! Do not seek to bind yourself
to one who can give you nothing in return! Try to think of the
melancholy girl that you have pitied and loved, only as a shadow that
fell for a moment across the sunshine of your path, and then passed away
forever!—and so forget her!”
“Stella, I have pledged my honor never to renew this suit, unless you
reverse in my favor the sentence you have pronounced upon it; but,
inspired by the deep and deathless love I bear you, and ‘hoping against
hope,’ I feel impelled to implore before leaving you that, in the event
of a favorable change of sentiment or purpose toward me, you will not
hesitate to give me leave to return. Stella, will you promise me so much
as that?”
“Noblest friend that I have in the world, how gladly would I promise,
but I must not, Montressor. Were I to do so, you would feel bound to
wait the changes of my mood, and so, for a most undeserving love, might
miss, in some nobler woman’s affections, the happiness in store for
you.”
“Stella, will you raise your sweet, mournful eyes to mine one moment,
that you may read my soul while I speak?”
Estelle lifted her dark orbs to meet the clear, pure, blue eyes bent
with so much love and candor upon hers, and read the deep, unchanging
truth and constancy of his soul as he said:
“Stella, in the presence of the heart-searching God, who sees and hears
me, I assure you that I shall never love another woman as I love you,
and therefore, of course, can never wed another; so that, whether you
give me this slightest of hopes or not, I am equally and forever bound!
_Now_ will you promise, Stella? Remember, it is only to let me know in
case of a change in your sentiments.”
For an instant the light of an unutterable love and joy broke on her
beautiful, dark face, and her smiling lips parted to speak; when, as if
a sudden memory and warning had griped her very heart, she uttered a
low, sharp cry, turned paler than before, and then said:
“No, no, my lord. Stella cannot even give you that. She is poorer than
the poorest in gifts to you. She can only pray that you may forget her
and be happy.”
He looked profoundly disappointed and troubled. But soon mastering his
despondency, he said hopefully:
“Well, dearest Stella, although you reject me without apparent reason,
and refuse to give me the slightest promise or the most distant hope,
yet, _I repeat_, should you, in the long future, change your purpose,
and write to me one word—‘Come’—I will hasten to lay at your feet an
unchanged heart. Good-bye. God be with you!” and raising her hand, he
bowed over it, pressed it to his lips, turned and left the room.
Some moments after, Lady Morelle, who came to seek and congratulate her
daughter upon what she imagined to be the only possible result of the
interview, found Estelle lying in a swoon upon the floor. It was
followed by a long and terrible illness, terminating in a tediously
protracted convalescence. The town season was at hand before Estelle was
able to re-enter society.
They went up to London, and once more the “star of beauty” arose upon
its world. And though the cloud upon her life settled darker and
heavier, day by day—though she grew still more reserved, gloomy, and
isolated—she was more followed, flattered, and courted than before.
Thus three years had passed away, when one morning, while the family,
then occupying their town house in Berkely square, were seated at a late
breakfast, and Sir Parke was engaged in reading aloud from the London
Times an account of the saving of the French ship—Le Duc D’Anjou—wrecked
off the coast of Algiers—Estelle uttered a low cry and sank fainting
from her seat.
This attack was not, as the other had been, followed by illness; on the
contrary, from that day, the cloud seemed lifted from her head, and even
those who had most admired her face in its shadow, were enchanted to see
how brilliant was her beauty in its sunshine! Her health and spirits
daily improved, yet in the midst of all this flowing tide of new life
Estelle astonished her friends by suddenly, in the height of the London
season, retiring to her father’s country seat, where she remained in
strict seclusion from the world for eighteen months.
At the end of this period, Lord Montressor, who had never left England,
or lost trace of his beloved Stella, and who was now staying at his
castle in Dorsetshire, was one day seated at breakfast when the morning
mail was brought him. Among a score of letters the first that attracted
his attention was a dainty white envelope superscribed in a delicate
handwriting. He took that up first and opened it—it contained but one
word—“COME.”
The light of an ineffable joy broke over his face! Oh! he had waited,
patiently, hopefully, years, for that word, and at last he had received
it! Thanks to Heaven in the first instance! and then pushing all the
other letters unopened aside he sprung up, rang for his valet, and
ordered his valise packed and horses put to the carriage.
In twenty more minutes he had reached the railway station just as the
cars were about to start, and in three hours he was at Hyde Hall and
standing in the presence of Estelle!—she looking so beautiful and happy!
With the old chivalric enthusiasm of devotion, he dropped, at once, upon
his knee, and raised her hand to his lips, saying—
“For four years I have hoped and waited for one word from you, and at
last, beloved, you have written—‘Come,’ and I am at your feet, as I
said, with an unchanged heart!”
“But I,” she said, deeply blushing, while she held both hands to raise
him—“I, my Lord, have not an unchanged heart! for longer than four years
I have loved you more than woman’s tongue may tell—and never more, than
at the hour in which we bade farewell, as I thought, forever!”
“I know it, beloved! I knew it _then_! knew it _always_! I never doubted
it! Could I be deceived in the dear heart of the woman I loved! No! and
that was the secret of my patience!” he replied, taking his seat on the
sofa by her side.
“And yet you never inquired, and do not even now inquire, why, without
explanation and without hope, I sent you from my presence, and why now,
without apparent reason, I summon you back!” she said, as a shade of the
old sadness fell upon her beautiful face.
“Your motives, dearest, were, and are your own. Not until your spirit
move you to do so, shall you give them to me! I have full confidence in
you, beautiful Stella!”
“_Confidence! oh my God?_” she exclaimed in a low, deep, thrilling tone.
“Why, what is the matter, dearest?”
She looked up suddenly, a smile of worshiping love, breaking like
sunlight over her dark face, and said—
“Nothing, nothing my lord! but that all your thoughts and feelings are
so elevated beyond your poor Estelle’s! And yet she would almost choose
it so! for could she be an angel, she would wish you to be something far
higher—a god!”
“Sweet enthusiast! moderate your aspirations, or the world and its
people will disappoint you! Be not an idolater; worship only God, my
Stella.”
Such was their meeting!
Yet, occasionally, throughout the interview, a sudden shadow like the
recurrence of a painful thought, would fall upon her bright face and
then pass as it came.
They were engaged, and within a few days the marriage was announced to
take place on the first of May.
But it was observed by the nearest friends of the bride, that from the
day of her betrothal, her spirits had been marked by the strangest
fluctuations. Sometimes with her beautiful dark face illumined with a
deep, still, almost religious joy, she moved about as it were, on
“winged feet,” or sat brooding in a happy trance. At other times, she
fell into deep gloom and anxiety, as inexplicable as it was alarming to
her friends, who greatly feared her relapse into the deep melancholy
that had so long overshadowed her, and that they had grown to dread as a
serious constitutional malady. But they hoped every thing from her
approaching marriage with the man she loved. Lord Montressor observed
with the deepest interest the uncertain moods of his betrothed; but with
the high-toned sentiments that distinguished him, refrained from
inquiring, and awaited her voluntary revelations.
At last the first of May, the marriage day, upon which I have presented
the parties to the reader, arrived, and all the _haut ton_, as I said,
were gathered at the Hall or at the church to do honor to the
solemnities.
And the expectant bride, in her bridal robe and vail waited within her
boudoir, the arrival of the bridegroom, whom she had summoned to a
private interview before they should proceed to the church. She had not
long to wait. He who quickly responded to her slightest intimation,
immediately obeyed her call.
Yet when she heard his firm elastic step approaching,
“Now God have mercy on me!” she prayed, and covered her face with her
hands.
He entered, unannounced, and saying,
“My beautiful Stella! I am here, you perceive, by your commands!”
She dropped her hands, and revealing a face pale with misery, spoke in a
thrilling, deep, impassioned tone—
“You are here by my _supplication_, my lord! I have no right to
command.”
“We will waive that! what is your will, my dearest Stella?”
“My _prayer_, my lord—is first, for your forgiveness.”
“_Forgiveness?_—my Stella!”
“Aye! my dear lord! you see before you a penitent and a supplicant, who
may soon be something far more wretched!”
“My Stella! what mean you?”
“Come to the window, Lord Montressor!” she said, rising and preceding
him. “Look out,” she continued, putting aside the rose-colored hangings,
and revealing a view of the park below, alive with its restless
multitude. “What are all these people waiting for, my lord?”
“What are they waiting for, my Stella?—for that, for which I also wait,
with how much more impatience!” he answered, while a deep flush of love
and joy, for an instant, supplanted the anxiety on his face.
“They wait to see a bride pass, where a bride may never go!” she said in
a solemn voice.
“Stella! great Heaven! what say you!” he exclaimed, gazing on her with
profound astonishment.
“That the bride they expect is unworthy to stand before God’s holy altar
beside Lord Montressor!”
“Unworthy, Stella! You!”
“_Most unworthy_, my lord!” she said, dropping her arms, and dropping
her head in an attitude of the deepest misery. “I should have made this
confession long ago, Lord Montressor; but I have deceived you—I have
deceived you!”
“In what respect, Stella? My God! It cannot be! No, it cannot be! that
while betrothed to me, you do not love me!”
“_Not love you! Oh! my dear lord!_” she murmured, in a voice of
thrilling tenderness that carried conviction of her truth to his deepest
heart.
“What mean you, then, dearest one? if indeed you return my deep love.”
“Oh! I do, I do, Montressor; whatever happens, wherever you go, take
that assurance with you! I love you, my lord! shall ever love you, even
though after what I shall have told you, you repulse and hate me, and go
to our friends and say,—‘That woman whom I was about to wed, is but a
whited sepulchre, whom I have proved, and whom I now reject’—and so
leave me to the scorn of men, still I say—ever shall say—I love you,
Lord Montressor! I love you, and the consciousness of being unworthy of
your love, is the bitterest element in my punishment,” she said, in a
voice of such profound misery, that Lord Montressor could scarcely
continue to believe her agitation unfounded or exaggerated.
He dropped upon a seat, and sitting still and white as a carved image of
stone, gazed upon her, waiting her further communications.
She had thrown herself into her chair and covered her face with her
hands.
“Speak, Stella!” at last he said, in kind, encouraging tones.
She dropped her hands from a face from which a deep blush had burned
away the lilies, essayed to obey, but the words seemed to suffocate her,
and she remained silent.
“Speak, dearest Stella,” once more he said.
She cowered and shuddered, murmuring—
“Oh! kill me! kill me! Indeed I think it would be right!”
“My beloved Stella,” he said, in a voice of deep tenderness, rising and
approaching her—“can you not trust in me?”
“Ah! not with loving words though! Kill me not with loving words!” she
cried almost wildly.
“Stella, be calm, beloved! Your bitter self-accusation cannot make you
seem unworthy to me. Take time and explain.”
“Lord Montressor! it was my deep love—alas! the selfish and injurious
sentiment, unworthy the holy name of love,—that has sealed my lips so
long! A hundred times I have been on the point of making to you a
revelation, that I have never even made to my parents, and as often the
terrible fear that I should never afterward see your face again, has
withheld me.”
“My dearest Stella! I know not what you may be about to reveal to me;
and since it is not that you do not love me, _I_ do not dread to hear
it. I cannot be mistaken in your pure, womanly heart, Stella; and here I
pledge you my word, that whatever that revelation may be, _it shall make
no change in our present relations_.”
“What! Oh, Heaven! What do you say!” exclaimed Stella, holding her
breath in listening.
“I say, beloved, that in an hour from this, I shall with your
permission, lead you to the altar; and that whatever you may in the
meanwhile reveal—since it is not that you have ceased to love me—shall
not change my purpose.”
“What, what, have I not misunderstood you, my lord? You did not mean to
tell me——?”
“I meant to tell you what I now repeat,—that nothing you have to reveal
shall change our present relations. Come, dear Stella! if any secret
sorrow oppresses your heart, lay it trustingly on mine. Confide in one,
who in another hour will be your husband.”
“Dear Father in Heaven! dost Thou hear him?—dost Thou hear this man whom
I have so long deceived, and whom I would have so bitterly wronged.
Montressor!” she said in a voice of thrilling tenderness,—“does not the
grief, and terror, and humiliation, written on my brow, _warn_ you that
some deep sin is to be confessed?—something that may, or must change our
present relations, and make it incumbent on you to go below and announce
to our friends—‘this woman is totally lost, and our marriage is at an
end.’ You are warned. Will you still promise blindly?”
“Not blindly, dearest Stella! That something in your past life has gone
very wrong,—that you have hitherto shrunk from confiding in me, I do
begin to see; but that your sense of honor now obliges you, despite your
terrors, and in the face of all consequences, to make the revelation, I
also see! Stella, I have known and loved you, only you, for seven years!
I am not a man to be mistaken in any woman; much less in you, whom I
have known and loved thus long! I love you! esteem you! trust in you! Do
you likewise confide in me! Lay your secret sorrow on your promised
husband’s faithful heart, beloved, for he is able to shelter and sustain
you,” he said, and went and closed the blinds of the bay-window, to shut
out the glaring sun and the merry laughter, and then returned and sat
down, and held out his arms to receive her, saying—
“Come, love! come drop your weary head upon my bosom, and whisper what
you have to say.”
“No, no, Lord Montressor; at your feet, rather, should your poor Stella
tell her story,” she murmured, sinking down before him, and dropping her
face upon her hands; but he caught and raised her to his heart, and held
her there.
“Come now, dearest Stella, speak!”
“Alas, alas, my lord, you think me a young girl whom you clasp to your
bosom. I am not! What, you do not put me thence?”
He gathered her closer, and bent his head down protectingly over her.
“Lord Montressor, do you hear me? Do you hear me say that I am no young
girl whom you gather to your bosom?”
“A widow, then, my Stella,” he said, changing color, but modulating his
voice so that no slightest inflection should wound her stricken heart.
“Yes, a widow! Oh, noble _Sans peur_! And you do not reproach me?”
“I do not. Come, now, tell me the whole story, love.”
“Lord Montressor, you know so much of my life that I need but use a few
words to inform you all you require to be told of its fatal, secret
history. You are already aware that, at the age of seven years, I was
sent to Paris, and placed at Madame L’Orient’s _Pensionnat des
Demoiselles_, an establishment of the highest reputation, where I
remained until I was fifteen years of age. It was when I had but just
completed my fourteenth year that Victoire L’Orient, the only son of my
teacher, was presented to me by his mother—” Here the voice of Estelle
broke down, and she paused as if unable to proceed. Her companion waited
a little while, and then said, encouragingly:
“Speak freely, dear Stella.”
“I am sure, Lord Montressor, that I do not mean to endeavor to shift the
blame from my own shoulders to those of others, but at this distance of
time I see clearly that Victoire L’Orient was introduced to me by his
mother with sinister views—to ensnare, in fact, the heart, and win the
hand of the wealthy English heiress. Victoire was ten years my senior,
handsome, accomplished, insinuating, and, since the truth must be
revealed, unprincipled; though of his moral turpitude I had no suspicion
until it was too late! too late!” Again the voice of Stella sank, and
she covered her face with her hands.
“Compose yourself, dear love, and go on, that this may be finished, and
your heart relieved.”
“Without seeming to do so, Madame L’Orient fostered our acquaintance
into friendship, if friendship could be said to exist between the
deceiver and the deceived—into intimacy at least. Looking back now, I
cannot understand the spell of fascination that was woven around me.
Enough, alas, that I thought I loved Victoire, and was drawn step by
step, first into an admission of my sentiments toward him; then into an
engagement, subject to my parent’s consent; and, finally, without
appealing to them, into a clandestine marriage.”
Stella ceased and buried her face in her hands. Lord Montressor laid his
hand on her head, and both were silent for a little while; after which,
she resumed, in a voice of thrilling passion,—
“Oh, yet think, in judging me, how young I was, how inexperienced I was,
how fatally influenced, in what intriguing hands, and then how quickly
and bitterly I repented.”
“I do not _judge_ you, dear one; I only _wait_ to hear the end.”
“I am sure that while she was careful not to appear in the matter,
Madame L’Orient, who was an accomplished intriguante, forwarded our
marriage. Alas, before many months, I understood and felt, both how
bitterly I had sinned and had been sinned against. I remained at school
as before my marriage, as it was the decision of my husband and
mother-in-law, who did not wish the reputation of her establishment to
suffer, to keep the union a secret until after I should have finally
left school and returned to England and my father’s house. My husband,
who had lodgings near the Pensionnat, visited me at his own convenience
rather than at mine. Oh, very soon indeed I discovered the worthlessness
of the man who had ensnared my childish heart and hand! Would you
believe of any man scarcely, such things as I am about to tell you of
him?—not that I wish to reflect dishonor on the dead, but that I wish
you, Lord Montressor, to know how soon and how terribly I expiated my
sin. Victoire was addicted to inebriation, to gambling and
licentiousness, and every species of dissipation and excess. These vices
kept him always in want of money; and he not only seized and turned into
cash my girlish trinkets, and appropriated all my pocket-money, but
_abused_ me when I had no more to give him, bidding me write to my
father for funds.”
“OH-H!” groaned Lord Montressor, with the energy of a man who strives
hard to repress himself.
“I did as he bade me. I drew freely on my father, who always lectured me
severely for my supposed extravagance, _without_ always honoring my
supposed drafts; and when he did not,” continued Estelle, rising,
standing before him, extending both her hands, and surveying her own
beautiful figure, “this little form you cherish so tenderly, this slight
frame, that was even smaller then, bore, in black and blue, the marks of
his violence.”
“Oh-h!” once more groaned Lord Montressor, losing self-command, starting
up, and pacing the floor. Then returning, he reseated Estelle, stood
leaning over her chair, and asked under his breath:
“Was the creature left to die a natural death?”
Stella shook her head, saying:
“Patience, beloved! God had patience with him, why should not we? As for
myself, my sufferings were a just retribution. The froward maiden and
undutiful daughter was fitly punished. Young as I was I felt it so, and
thus, with some grace of patience, I accepted it all—all, Montressor!”
Again, unable to proceed, she paused, and dropped her face upon her
hands, he waiting silently. Presently she gathered firmness and
proceeded:
“In a year from my sinful marriage, I became the mother of an infant
girl. My swimming senses scarcely perceived the child, before all
consciousness left me, and life was a blank for many weeks. When I
returned to consciousness, I found myself at a hotel, in charge of my
father and mother; but my husband and child—where were they?—how long
had I been at the hotel?—and how much of my circumstances did my parents
know? These questions soon forced themselves upon my mind, ruined my
rest by day and night, and seriously retarded my recovery. I feared my
father even more then than now; and I dared not risk a single inquiry
upon the subjects of my anxiety. At last, I discovered that I had been
ill, though not always unconscious, for eight weeks; that my parents had
been with me only a few days, and that they were totally unsuspicious of
my new relations as wife and mother. I dared not inform them. I waited
restlessly, impatiently, for the appearance of my mother-in-law, who
never came. At last, with caution, I inquired after Madame L’Orient. I
was told that her establishment was broken up, and was recommended to be
still, and refrain from exciting conversation. As I convalesced, I
gradually learned the truth—very gradually, for had the knowledge come
suddenly, I should not now be here, telling you the story: the terrible
shock must have killed me,” she said, and shuddered from head to foot.
“Compose yourself, and proceed, dear Stella! You speak to one who
sympathizes with every phase of your suffering.”
“Of my _punishment_!—that is the proper word.”
“Do not reproach yourself so severely, Stella; but proceed, my love.”
“Ah, how shall I go on! how shall I inform you of the horrors that came
to my knowledge? I should have told you, that for a week before I was
first taken ill, I missed Victoire, but believing he had gone upon one
of his frequent pleasure excursions, and glad to be left for a few days
in peace, I felt no uneasiness on account of his absence. After my
recovery I learned that at that very time he was under arrest upon the
charge of treason. And during the period of my long illness he had been
tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. His punishment was afterward
commuted to transportation to the penal colonies. He was then on his way
to Algiers.
“His mother, who was seriously implicated in the same crime, had been
examined, and for want of evidence against her, discharged.
Notwithstanding her acquittal, the popular feeling was so hostile to
Madame L’Orient, that she was not only compelled to break up her
establishment, but to leave the neighborhood. After a great deal of
difficulty, I contrived to secure a private interview with Madame,
before she left the city and inquire the fate of my infant. ‘Dead and
buried in the Cemetière des Innocens,’ was the answer I received. She
had lived but an hour, and died about the same time that I had fallen
into a state of insensibility. What more had I to do in Paris, or even
in the world. My life seemed blighted, my heart broken, my doom sealed
at fifteen years of age. My injured and unsuspicious parents, concerned
for their daughter’s failing health and spirits, took me to the German
baths, thence to Sicily, thence over Europe, and finally brought me home
to England, in the faint hope that quietness and native air might do for
me that which travel and change of scene had failed to do. In vain!
there was no hope, or help for me in this world. My sorrow was deepened
by the necessity of concealing its dreadful cause. I dared not confide
that secret passage of my life to either of my parents. You know the
uncompromising arrogance of Sir Parke, and the sensitive delicacy of
Lady Morelle. Their only and cherished daughter the wife of a ——! The
revelation would have killed my mother, would have driven my father mad!
I bore my sorrow—my punishment in silence; but do you wonder at my deep,
incurable melancholy? As a last resort, they took me up to London,
presented me at Court, and introduced me into the whirl of fashionable
life. My debut in society made what is called ‘a sensation,’—my career
was, in common parlance, ‘successful.’ I had many ‘eligible’ suitors;
perhaps the sadness that shrunk from observation and attention, was from
its very strangeness attractive. At length you came, and saw and loved
me, all unworthy as I was, and I soon perceived in you the master of my
heart and life! But, oh! the unspeakable agony of feeling this, and
feeling too, that I never, never, never could be yours! So, at the last
day, feels the sinner who sees, at length, that for some fair poisonous
apple of Sodom, unlawfully seized on earth, he has lost the kingdom of
Heaven! _Do you still wonder at my deep, incurable melancholy?_ We
parted I bore that sharp anguish, as I had borne all the rest, even as
the just retribution of my sin!”
“My dear, dear Stella! you reproach yourself without measure.”
“When I recovered from the long, nervous fever into which that great
trial had thrown me—to please my parents I re-entered society, and was
followed, flattered, courted as before; but nothing would dissipate the
gloom of my soul. At last, while in Berkely square, at my father’s
breakfast table, I heard him read from the Daily Times, among other
items of news, the account of the wreck of the French ship ‘_Le Duc
D’Anjou_,’ on her passage from Algiers. Now the slightest circumstance
relating to that Province had for me a terrible interest, and I listened
as I should never have done had not the ship sailed from that coast. The
last name on the list of the lost was that of Victoire L’Orient!”
“Great Heaven!”
“God forgive me! I thought not of the horrors of the shipwreck, the
sufferings of the crew, or even of the loss of the poor men drowned with
Victoire. I only felt my evil genius gone, the gloom and terror lifted
from my life, and I swooned with the shock of a great deliverance!”
“I do not wonder, good Heaven!”
“When the reaction came, I knew how wrong had been this feeling; and to
atone for it, and to pay respect to _death_, if not to the _dead_, I
withdrew from society and retired to this place, where I remained in
seclusion eighteen months, just as I should have done in mourning the
decease of a near and honored relative. I brought down that copy of the
Times, containing the account of the shipwreck, and have preserved
it—here it is,” she said, lifting an old paper from a table near her.
“Look at it—there is a note in parenthesis following the name of
Victoire L’Orient—I mention it only as a providential confirmation of
the identity of the man.”
Lord Montressor opened the paper, looked down the column until he came
to the list of the lost, and to the last name—Victoire L’Orient, with
the following annotation.
“This man, it may be remembered, was some years since convicted of a
complicity in the treason of De Vil, attended with circumstances of a
memorable character, and was sentenced to be transported for life to the
convict colony of Algiers. He had lately received his pardon, and was on
his way to France.”
“Why have you preserved this, Stella?” inquired Lord Montressor, when he
had finished reading.
“I do not know—some strange instinct!—perhaps to prevent my fancying the
account to be a mere dream. Well! at the end of my eighteen months of
self-inflicted seclusion, I summoned you, dearest friend, to my side.
You came, loyal heart! you came at once! I meant to have immediately
revealed to you the secret story of my sin and punishment, and so,
before you should have had time to commit yourself, left my fate in your
hands. But that first interview was so sweet that I could not disturb
its harmony! I said, ‘I will tell him to-morrow.’ Morning came, and we
were so happy, I shrank from clouding our bright joy; I said, ‘I will
tell him in the evening.’ Your very perfections frightened me from the
task. Again and again I postponed the revelation, in the vain hope that
another day I should have more courage to make it. Alas! day by day, the
disclosure grew to seem more strange and difficult. At length as the day
of our marriage drew near, each hour rendered the necessity of my
confession more imminent, and the act of making it more terrible! Last
Sunday I thought I would then tell you; but—I _could_ not do it!
Yesterday I felt sure that I should inform you; but, the first attempted
words suffocated me! The scene around swam before me!”
“Alas! did you so dread me, my gentle Stella?”
“This morning _all_ dreads vanished before one great fear!—the fear of
presently standing before the Lord’s holy altar, to palm upon you as a
maiden’s hand, the hand of the widow of Victoire L’Orient. This is my
revelation, Lord Montressor,” she said, rising with a certain mournful
dignity. “I sinned first and greatly, against my parents in contracting
a secret and unauthorized marriage; and long and terribly have I
expiated it! But I have sinned even more against your pure, noble
nature, in keeping this from your knowledge since our engagement, and
even up to this last hour! It has cost me much to make it now; but now,
that all is said, I feel relieved and strengthened! You are my judge,
Lord Montressor.”
“Dearest Stella,” he said, taking her hand, reseating her, and standing,
leaning over her chair, “let me be now, as always, perfectly frank with
you. First, let me repeat that your painful story has made no difference
in my feelings and purposes toward you, nor, as a matter of course, in
our present and future relations. I do not gainsay, dear Stella, that
your premature marriage was a great wrong; but I remember that you were
an inexperienced child in the hands of intriguing and insinuating
people, with whom you were not prepared to cope! I do not either deny
that your concealment of your previous marriage, first from your
parents, and afterward from your affianced husband, was a greater wrong;
but I can easily understand how, in the first case, the haughty severity
of Sir Parke, and the sensitive pride of Lady Morelle, should alike have
frightened you from making the revelation; and still better can I
sympathize with your shrinking reluctance to confide such a secret to
me; and feel how much more difficult every day of delay must have
rendered such a confession; and through all, how your refined and
sensitive mind, brooding day and night over your misfortune, should have
come to exaggerate both the magnitude of the fault and the difficulty of
concealing it; and, finally, my victorious Stella, I can appreciate the
triumph of principle in your present disclosure. Come to my heart, sweet
Stella!” he said, opening his arms and gathering her to his bosom.
“Not until this hour, dear Stella, have I fully won your heart,” he
whispered, dropping his face caressingly upon the silky black ringlets
of her bowed head—“not until this hour have I fully won your heart!”
“But now I am all your own. Oh, my lord! my lord!—all your own—heart,
soul, and spirit!” she said, in a voice of thrilling tenderness. “I had
that blighting secret, that I dared not lay on the strong breast of the
father that gave me life, nor on the tender bosom of the mother that
bore me, but which at last I confide to your own great heart, and you
receive the trust, and gather me within the fold of your powerful arms,
and have no word of bitter reproach for my sin, but only a tender
compassion for my sufferings; no humbling pity for my weakness, but only
a noble sympathy with my struggles, and praise for my late—too late
victory!”
“Reproach for _you_, my wounded dove? my gentle, patient sufferer? Nay,
rest on my bosom; rest sweetly here awhile,” he murmured, smoothing her
hair with his hand.
“Oh, the blessed relief, the sweet, sweet repose, the measureless
content, I find on this sustaining breast!” she breathed, in a deep sigh
of deliverance and rest.
“Would for your own sake, beloved, that you had sooner laid the burden
of your secret sorrow upon your promised husband’s faithful heart—that
you might have sooner found the relief he can give you, gentle and
beautiful Stella.”
“Beautiful! did you say, my lord? Would, indeed, that I were infinitely
beautiful, that I possessed genius and accomplishments equal to that
beauty, and wealth and power to match both, for your sake, Montressor;
for I should say then as now,—‘all that I am and all that I have belong
less to me than to my dear and honored lord! I am his own, his own! I am
cradled in his heart! I live, breathe, think, love only in and from his
great life.’”
“You are, indeed, sweet Stella, the heart of my heart!”
“Would your Stella were more worthy of you.”
“More worthy of me? Do not talk so, love! Women are queens, always too
good, for men; and you of women, most queenly, and should not bate your
state, to speak to your subject in this style,” said Lord Montressor.
“Woman should not reveal her heart so plainly even to him who possesses
it! Is that your meaning, my lord, and is it so?—for I, you see, do not
know! I only know intimately one woman—myself, and now I am not so much
myself as you? Shall I practice reserve with _you_?”
“No, no, dearest; too long you have practiced reserve.”
“Well, that is over. I have laid my soul open to your view! I have shown
you a sorrow that I dared not trust to father or mother; even as we let
the holy eye of God see things which we conceal from our dearest
friends.”
“But now your parents must be informed of all, dear Stella.”
“Oh! no, no, no! It would kill the one and craze the other,” exclaimed
Estelle, white with terror. “No, no; none but your own kindly heart
could bear the revelation!”
“Fear nothing, dear Stella. They need not be told just yet; with their
feelings, the disclosure of such a story concerning their daughter, Miss
Morelle, might indeed be attended with serious consequences. I shall
wait until the law has invested me with the exclusive right to watch
over your honor, peace and welfare, and to protect you, if need be, even
against the severity of your father, and the reproaches of your mother,
before I make the disclosure, and then, the story told them of Lady
Montressor by the lips of her husband, who here pledges himself to bear
her blameless and harmless through all—will come very much softened to
their ears.”
“Ah, Heaven! Lord Montressor, will you do this?”
“It must be done, beloved! Your parents must know all; your life must be
cleared and calmed. I take that task upon myself. Resign yourself to my
charge; trust in me; lay your weary, young head on my breast, and let
your spirit sleep if you will; for no harm can come to you in the
shelter of my love!”
“Oh! you are so good and great! Would I were better and wiser for your
sake! You should have an angel for a wife!”
Lord Montressor smiled.
“I do not aspire to an angel, or to any better or happier woman. I love
you just so, with the mournful earth beauty in your eyes.”
The opening of the door startled them, and Lady Morelle entered.
She was a magnificent-looking woman—of a tall and finely-proportioned
figure, and a haughty carriage, delicate aquiline features, with an
expression of blended pride and fastidiousness, fair complexion, blue
eyes, and light hair arranged in plain bandeaux. She wore a light blue
brocade satin dress, and a mantilla of rich white lace. She entered,
smiling proudly.
Lord Montressor rose to greet her.
“Good-morning, my lord, I hope the interview this most capricious of
dear Stellas demanded, is at an end, for, whether it be or not, I must
interrupt you. It is half-past eleven, and if there is a marriage to be
solemnized to-day, it is full time we were at the church.”
“Our interview is concluded, madam! I am ready, and only waiting your
ladyship’s convenience,” said Lord Montressor advancing an easy chair
for the lady’s reception.
“Thank you, I do not wish to rest. Your attendants, my lord, are——”
“They are probably now waiting for me at the church, madam, where I will
meet you a few minutes hence. _Au revoir_, dear Stella!” said his
lordship, and lifting the hand of his promised bride to his lips, and
then bowing to Lady Morelle, he left the room.
The lady rang for her daughter’s maid.
“I declare, Estelle, I never knew so strange a girl! Now what, possibly,
could you have wanted to say to Montressor this morning?”
“I only wanted to put his heart to a last trial, dear mamma.”
“Your head is turned, I think!—but here comes Finette. Now stand up and
have your robe smoothed, and your wreath and vail put on.”
At this moment the French dressing-maid, Finette, entered, and Estelle
stood up before the cheval mirror, while the girl drew down the folds of
her robe, and took up the virginal wreath of orange blossoms to set upon
her head.
“Not that—not that, Finette! Open that box, it contains a coronet I have
chosen for this occasion.”
The girl raised the lid of the box that her mistress had indicated, and
drew thence a rich wreath of passion flowers.
“That is the wreath I shall wear, Finette.”
“Why, my dearest Estelle, how eccentric! Who ever heard of a bride
wearing other than orange blossoms in her hair? Do, love, be
reasonable!”
“Do, sweet mamma, indulge me on my marriage day and permit me even to be
_un_reasonable in the trifling affair of choosing a wreath.”
“Well, well, as you please, you dear, eccentric creature! Lady
Montressor will soon be in a position to give the law to fashion in all
matters of taste, and it is easy to foresee that she will be an
innovator!” said Lady Morelle, proudly and fondly, as she gazed upon her
beautiful daughter.
And thus the wreath of passion flowers was placed upon her brow, the
vail thrown over her head, and the toilet of the bride was complete.
“Come now, my love, let us go down,” said the lady, giving her arm to
her daughter to conduct her from the room.
In five more minutes Estelle Morelle was handed into a close carriage,
the three other seats of which were occupied by her father, mother, and
first bridesmaid. This carriage was preceded by that of the Duchess of
Graveminster, and that of Lord Dazzleright, and was followed by a
barouche containing the four other bridesmaids, and by various coaches
of the friends, relatives and acquaintances, of the bride’s family, who
had been invited to attend her to the church. As the procession defiled
down the grand avenue, the village men and maidens gathered on either
side to see it pass, and children threw flowers in the road. The bell
rung a joyous peal, that continued until the cortege reached the church,
which was a small gothic building just beyond the Park gates. The yard
was filled with carriages of almost every description, and among them
was recognized the crimson and grey liveries of Lord Montressor. As the
cortege entered the church-yard, Lord Montressor alighted, and stood
waiting until the carriage of Sir Parke Morelle, drew up before the
church door, when he went and received his bride as she descended, and
bowing with reverential tenderness, drew her arm within his own, and
preceded by the Duchess of Graveminster on the arm of Sir Parke Morelle,
and then by Lady Morelle on that of Lord Dazzleright, and followed by
the bridesmaids and groomsmen in pairs, entered the church. The pews and
the side aisles were crowded to suffocation; and the beadle had enough
to do to keep the centre aisle sufficiently clear to admit the passage
of the bridal procession.
Amid all this assembly, one group, gathered into a remote and deeply
shaded pew in the corner to the extreme left of the entrance, in their
manifest desire to avoid observation, might, at any other time, have
attracted notice. But now all eyes were fixed upon the entree of the
procession. This group consisted of a middle-aged, dark-complexioned,
mercurial little woman of foreign aspect, clothed in black; a young man,
with a tall and well-proportioned figure, regular features,
deeply-bronzed complexion and jet black hair and eyes, of somewhat
sinister expression; an elderly, dignified, magisterial-looking
gentleman, and lastly—of a policeman who seemed to be retained in the
service of the party.
As the bridal train entered the church, the little swarthy woman quickly
averted her head and let down her thick black vail, and the young man
stooped out of sight, as if to pick up something from the floor. The
magisterial-looking individual put on his spectacles, and regarded the
train with an ambiguous half-smile; while the police-officer looked on
with unconcealed curiosity. When they had passed the pew, the little
restless foreign woman plucked at the sleeve of the young man and
pointing to the procession now approaching the altar, exclaimed quickly,
under her breath,—
“Look you, Victoire! Can you bear this, then?”
“No matter, Madame! I wait!” said the Frenchman with a wicked smile.
“Will you not stop this, then?”
“No, no Madame! I wait!”
“For why, you wait?”
“For that she _des_pise, she _ab_hor, she scorn me—the convict! Very
well!—I make her to be also convict herself!” hissed the man between his
closed teeth.
Meanwhile the bridal train proceeded up the aisle and formed before the
altar in something like the following order—the old Duchess of
Graveminster and Sir Parke Morelle, leading the way, filed off to the
extreme right; Lady Morelle and Lord Dazzleright, following, passed off
to the left; next came the bride and bridegroom who took their places in
the centre; then their attendants, coming up in pairs, divided and
formed on either side—the bridesmaids filling up the segment of the
semicircle between the bride and her mother, and the groomsmen occupying
the corresponding space between the bridegroom and his father-in-law.
The sun shining in rich, deep-toned glory through the gorgeously stained
glass Gothic windows on either side the high altar, never fell upon a
more imposing bridal circle. There was the bridegroom, with his tall,
well set, kingly form, and most noble head and face, full of conscious
power, and wisdom, and protective love; and the bride with her dark,
bright, wondrous beauty and her matchless grace; and the stately
bridemen and the fair bridemaidens.—
“Each a queen by virtue of her breast and brow;”
and there were the dignified Sir Parke, the regal Lord Morelle, the
haughty old Duchess of Graveminster and the splendid Lord Dazzleright.
And there within the altar rails before the aisle stood the venerable
Bishop of Exeter, between two assistant clergymen. And all—congregation,
companions, and officiating ministers, were regarding with looks of
admiration, affection, or pride, the presence of the beautiful bride.
The Bishop opened the book. And every whisper was hushed, and every eye
reverently dropped as the venerable prelate, in a solemn voice,
pronounced the first words of the imposing ritual.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together, here in the sight of God, and
in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman,
in holy matrimony; which is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among
all men; and therefore is not to be entered into unadvisedly, or
lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear
of God. Into this holy state these two people present come now to be
joined.
“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined
together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever, hold his peace.”
The Bishop now made the usual solemn pause, during which not a breath
seemed drawn in the silent church.
Though had any one been sufficiently near that ill-omened group in the
shadowy corner pew, they might have caught the deep, hurried whisper of
the woman—
“Attend you, Victoire!—listen, then, my son!” And the hissing reply of
the man—
“Yes, Madame!—but mon Dieu! I wait!”
Meanwhile the rites proceeded—the grave voice of the prelate was
pronouncing the question—
“George Charles, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to
live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in
health; and forsaking all others keep thee only unto her as long as ye
both shall live?”
The Bishop paused.
And the bridegroom, fixing his eyes in unutterable love upon the
downcast, beautiful face of his bride, in a deep, proud, tender voice
responded—“I will.”
Then the same question being put to her, she lifted her large eyes for
an instant to his, and a glow of ineffable devotion suffused her
beautiful, dark face as she too breathed the same vow.
At the next question—“Who giveth this woman to be married to this
man?”—Sir Parke Morelle stepped forward, took the hand of his daughter
and placed it in that of the Bishop who transferred it to the hand of
the bridegroom Lord Montressor received the cherished gift reverently,
tenderly, with a deep inclination of his noble head, and a thrilling
pressure of his clasping hand.
Then followed the putting on of the ring, and then the prayers, the
valedictory, and finally the nuptial benediction.
The imposing solemnities were over.
And friends gathered around with blessings; and then came in turn, the
grave, earnest, tender, gay or gallant forms of congratulations—as the
officiating ministers, the father, mother, bridemaids and bridemen
pressed around with many kind wishes.
This occasioned some considerable delay, in the midst of which the
ominous party in the dark corner pew might have been observed to steal
out and retire from the church.
“Enough! enough!” at length smilingly said Sir Parke, sympathizing with
the blushing embarrassment of the recipient of all these compliments,
and taking her hand and placing it upon the arm of Lord Montressor, who
drew it closely to his side, bowed around to his friends, and turned to
lead his bride from the church—a performance more easily to be wished
than accomplished; for the people were now pressing out of the pews, and
the aisles were choked up with the crowd. Thus their progress from the
altar to the door was an alternate step and pause—a sort of stop-march.
And thus a delay of more than half an hour intervened between the moment
of their receiving the nuptial benediction and that of their issuing
from the church door. As the church, the yard was crowded with people of
all classes, eager to see the bride pass.
The whole party, including the officiating Bishop and clergymen, were
expected to return to Hyde Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast;
after which, Lord and Lady Montressor were to set out for his lordship’s
castle in Dorsetshire, where they intended to pass the honeymoon.
The church-yard was so crowded that it was with great difficulty and
after much hindrance that Lord Montressor’s carriage could be driven up.
And with his shrinking bride upon his arm, and her friends around, he
waited before the church door, until it drew up, and one of the footmen
alighted, let down the steps and opened the door.
His lordship then bowed to his friends, and was about to hand his lady
into the carriage, when a policeman, pressing through the crowd, placed
himself between the carriage door and the bridal pair, intercepting
their further passage, while he respectfully inquired—
“Which of these ladies, here present, bears the name of Estelle
L’Orient?”
“_No_ lady here bears that name; stand out of the way, sir,” said Lord
Montressor, haughtily, while Estelle, with a half-suppressed cry,
lowered her vail and leaned heavily upon his arm.
“Let us pass, sir!” repeated his lordship, sternly.
“Pardon me, my lord, if in the discharge of my duty I cannot obey your
lordship,” answered the officer, who, in manners and address seemed much
superior to his class.
“What mean you, then, sir?” gravely inquired Lord Montressor, while
Estelle hid her face in the folds of her vail against his arm.
“My lord, I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Estelle L’Orient,
and if I mistake not, this is the lady,” said the officer, indicating
the bride by a respectful inclination of his head toward her.
“Yes! Mon Dieu, that is the woman!” exclaimed a shrill voice, coming
from the little old dark and shriveled Frenchwoman, who stood at a short
distance in the crowd.
“Eh! Mon Dieu, yes!—that is _my_ woman!—that is _my_ bride!—that is the
wife of the felon!” exclaimed the vindictive looking Frenchman by her
side, gesticulating the while like a madman.
A crowd of astonished faces now pressed closely upon the group, around
the carriage door, before which stood the policeman. And through this
crowd, as one having authority, now came Park Morelle, inquiring in
haughty displeasure—
“What is the meaning of this delay? Good people, give way! My lord, in
the name of Heaven put Lady Montressor into the carriage, and drive on!
Let us get out of this! Why Montressor! Estelle! what the fiend is the
meaning of all this?” exclaimed the baronet, perceiving now for the
first time by the pale, corrugated brow of the bridegroom, the
shuddering form and hidden face of the bride, the resolute bearing of
the policeman, and the horrified looks of the people, that something—he
guessed not what—was fearfully wrong.
“What is the meaning of all this? Montressor, why do you not speak?” he
asked, in an agitated voice—when, turning haughtily upon the
police-officer, he demanded.
“What is _your_ business here?”
“Excuse me, Sir Parke Morelle, I am here on duty.”
“_What_ duty, fellow?”
“I am charged with a warrant for the apprehension of one Estelle
L’Orient.”
“WHOM?” frowningly demanded the baronet.
“One Estelle L’Orient—this lady.”
“Out of the way, fellow! You are drunk, and richly deserve to be sent to
prison. There is no such person here. Out of the way, I say, or I shall
give you in charge!” exclaimed the baronet, losing all patience.
“Pardon me, Sir Parke, but I must execute my warrant,” persisted the
man; then stepping forward, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of the
bride, he said:
“Estelle L’Orient, I arrest you in the king’s name; you are my
prisoner.”
“_Sirrah!_” thundered Sir Parke, striding forward and striking off from
his daughter’s shoulder the desecrating hand of the policeman: “Are you
frantic?—have you the least idea of what sacrilege means?—do you know
what you are about?”
“Perfectly well, Sir Park Morelle. I am about to take this lady into
custody,” said the officer, approaching his prisoner.
“Begone, fellow, or by Heaven! mad or drunk, you shall dearly rue your
mistake.”
“_Sir Parke Morelle mistakes_; but he will not resist his majesty’s
warrant,” said the man, drawing the instrument from his pocket; and,
while the crowd pressed closer around in amazement and wonder, Sir Parke
stood the picture of incredulous astonishment and rage; and Lord
Montressor, with corrugated brow and compressed lips, continued to
support the form of Estelle, who now stood with clasped hands, white
face, and stony eyes, gazing upon the figure of the Frenchman as upon
that of a phantom raised from the dead—the policeman unfolded and read
the warrant.
COUNTY OF DEVON.—To the Constable of Hyde and all other peace-officers
in the said county of Devon:
Forasmuch as Gabrielle L’Orient, widow, now in this said county, hath
this day made information and complaint upon oath before me, George
Bannerman, one of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and for the
said county, that Estelle L’Orient, of the said county, on this
Thursday of the first instant, at the parish church of the parish of
Hyde, feloniously intermarried with George Charles, Lord Viscount
Montressor, in and during the life of her husband, Victoire L’Orient,
now living in these realms—these are, therefore, to command you, in
his majesty’s name forthwith to apprehend and bring before me, or some
other of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and of the said
county, the body of the said Estelle L’Orient, to answer unto the said
complaint, and to be further dealt with according to law. Herein fail
you not at your peril. Given under my hand and seal, this first day of
May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ——.
Signed, GEORGE BANNERMAN.
The officer finished the reading, folded the document, returned it to
his breast-coat pocket, and stood for a while waiting. No one, who had
not seen, could imagine the consternation that held the assembled crowd
in a trance of breathless silence. Sir Parke Morelle was the first to
break the fearful spell.
“MADAM!” he said, striding up and confronting his wretched daughter,
whose conscious looks were the most alarming features in the case, “why
do you not speak? If this is a conspiracy, expose it. Where is the
wretch that has made this complaint?”
“Here, my lord! Behold me! I am that wretch. I depose—I witness, that
Madam Estelle L’Orient is the wife of my son, Monsieur Victoire
L’Orient,” exclaimed the wicked-looking little French woman, whom Sir
Parke now saw and recognized as the quondam governess of his daughter.
Beginning to perceive the truth, the baronet turned upon his child and
inquired, in a tone of suppressed fury—
“MADAM, answer! What foundation is there for this trumped-up story?”
“_It is true_,” said the wretched Estelle, letting her arms fall by her
side, and her chin drop upon her breast, with a look of utter despair.
“Do your duty, officer. Remove your prisoner. Take the _feloness_
quickly out of my sight!” cried the baronet, nearly maddened by the
shock that had so suddenly hurled his towering pride to the dust.
“Sir Parke! Sir Parke! in mercy, you will not abandon your child in her
extremity,” pleaded Lord Montressor.
“By all the demons, sir, she is no child of mine! I renounce the wife of
Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” cried the baronet striding away.
“Sir Parke, for the love of God, _look on her_!” prayed Lord Montressor,
laying his hand on the arm of the enraged father, and seeking to detain
him.
“Release me, sir,” thundered the baronet, breaking from his clasp; “My
carriage there, sirrahs! Where is Lady Morelle? Let her ladyship be
summoned.”
“Lady Morelle has fainted, and has been conveyed into the church, my
lord,” said the Duchess of Graveminster, who had remained standing in an
attitude of stern and solemn haughtiness.
Sir Parke left orders for his carriage to come up, and then strode off
in the direction of the church.
Lord Montressor sought to reassure the deserted and despairing woman at
his side.
“Estelle, dear, suffering one, take comfort; all that a Christian man
may do for you, in your extremity, shall be done by me; rely on me; I
will never fail you.”
“Monsieur, the constable, look at that woman! She has no right to be on
the arm of my lord. Do your duty! arrest her!” exclaimed the Frenchman,
with vindictive haste.
“I fear I must not long delay, my lord,” interrupted the policeman,
respectfully.
“One moment, officer, if you please. Madam, for the love of the Saviour,
sustain this poor, stricken one, until I send a clergyman to attend her.
Estelle, dearest, I must, for your own sake, leave you now. I go to send
you proper aid. I will see you again at the magistrate’s—until then,
farewell,” said Lord Montressor, gently withdrawing his sustaining arm,
and laying her upon the half-repellant, haughty bosom of the Duchess of
Graveminster.
“God forever bless you, my lord. Whatever becomes of poor Estelle, may
God forever love and bless you!” murmured the poor girl, waving him
adieu.
Lord Montressor hastened into the church and into the vestry, where the
Bishop and assistant clergymen were taking off their robes.
“My lord, _what_ has happened?” exclaimed the venerable prelate, almost
appalled by the pale and haggard countenance and hurried and anxious
manner of his lordship; while the two assistant clergymen approached and
_looked_ the wonder they forbore to speak.
Lord Montressor hastily and briefly related all that had passed;
together with the history of the wretched marriage into which Estelle,
while a child at school, had been inveigled by the designing governess
and her unprincipled son, with the account of the crime, trial,
conviction, and transportation of Victoire, the long separation, and the
final published report of his loss in the wreck of ‘_Le Duc D’Anjou_,’
three years since.
“The warrant for her arrest was issued by Sir George Bannerman, a bitter
enemy of her father. He must have taken the deposition and issued the
warrant immediately after the marriage ceremony was concluded. He must
have been on the premises for that purpose; for I saw his carriage
leaving the church,” said his lordship.
“I saw Sir George himself _in_ the church,” said the Reverend Mr.
Oldfield, the elder of the two clergymen.
“_In_ the church! then he witnessed the marriage, heard the solemn
adjuration at its commencement, might have spoken, stopped the
proceedings, and saved this most unhappy of ladies from her present
misfortunes! Any but a malignant enemy would have interfered to save
her! The case will probably go to trial and come up at the next assizes;
but there I am sure an action cannot be successfully sustained against
her. And if the course of this magistrate has been as I suspect, that
fact will be a powerful weapon in the hands of her counsel; and will
also go far to hurl Sir George Bannerman himself, from his seat on the
bench. Meanwhile, however, the father of Estelle has abandoned her to
her fate. I, unhappily, through my late relations to her, am disabled
from directly protecting her, my known intervention would be far more
likely to injure than to benefit her cause; but you, reverened sirs,”
continued his lordship, turning toward the two assistant clergymen,
“you, Mr. Oldfield and Mr. Trevor, are friends of her family. Your age,
holy calling, and position, all constitute the most proper and desirable
persons to stand in the relation of protectors to this most unfortunate
lady. Go with her to the magistrate’s—will you not, sirs?”
The two ministers spoke together for an instant, and then Mr. Oldfield
answered for both—
“Most willingly will we attend the lady, my lord; but had we not best
object to a hearing before Sir George Bannerman, and demand that she be
taken before some other and impartial justice of the peace?”
“Upon the whole, _no_ sir; it will make little difference, in the end,
and I think it best that this man should be allowed to show his hand,”
said Lord Montressor; then tearing a leaf from a blank book on the
table, writing a check for a thousand pounds on the bank of Exeter, and
handing it to Mr. Oldfield, he continued, “Offer bail to any amount for
her appearance at court; and then, Mr. Oldfield, I am sure that you will
take this poor, shorn lamb to your fold, put her under the care of your
excellent lady, and bid her trust God with the result.”
“We will certainly do all that can possibly be done for this poor child
in her extremity; but—put up your check, my dear lord, for though you
are her truest friend, it is not expedient that this good office should
emanate from you,” said the venerable man.
“I believe you are right, sir; but what then can be done, since her
father abandons her?”
Again the two clergymen conversed apart, and then Mr. Trevor spoke—
“We are not bankers, my lord, it is true; but we can afford to risk some
hundred pounds apiece.”
“Risk, sir! There will be no risk—do you know Estelle, and imagine that
she will not duly present herself for trial?”
“Certainly not—certainly not, my dear lord! The word was unhappily
chosen. I meant merely that we might be held _responsible_ for so much
money.”
“Go now, dear sirs, to that poor girl, lest the Duchess of Graveminster
think her ermine irremediably tarnished by holding any longer that
blighted head upon her bosom. I will meet you at the magistrate’s.”
“Use my carriage, if no other is provided, Oldfield; I will find a seat
in Lord Montressor’s, and be in attendance also,” said the kind-hearted
bishop, whose sympathies had been strongly moved. The reverened
gentleman thanked the bishop, and left the church in search of their
unhappy charge. On reaching the yard they found that every carriage,
with the exception of that of Lord Montressor and that of the Bishop of
Exeter, had left the scene. Yes—parents, friends, acquaintances,
bridemaids and bridemen, all had fled the place as though the plague
were there. The Duchess of Graveminster had departed with the rest.
Estelle was left unsustained, leaning for support against the upright
headstone of an humble grave, and guarded by the policeman.
The pitying clergyman approached her, laid his hand upon her bowed head,
and gently said—
“Be not so utterly cast down, my child; raise your heart to Him who—when
‘all forsook him and fled,’ remained unshaken in his trust of his
Father.”
But the grief-stunned girl seemed not to hear, or see, or be in any way
conscious of the presence of the speaker; she remained wrapped in her
white robe and vail, leaning over the tombstone, perfectly motionless,
and might have seemed some risen ghost or descended spirit standing at
the grave.
“Come, come, my child, look up, give me your hand, let me put you into
the carriage; there are some necessary forms to be gone through, and
then you are free; and you are to go home with me to Bloomingdale
parsonage, for a visit, until your father feels better and comes for
you, as he will.”
But still she neither moved, nor spoke, and might have seemed less a
woman, or a spirit, than some draped marble statue.
“Come, my lamb, come,” pursued Mr. Oldfield, taking her cold and passive
hand, drawing it within his arm, and leading her away.
Very docilely she suffered herself to be placed in the carriage, when
Mr. Oldfield entered and took the seat beside her, and Mr. Trevor
followed, and placed himself on the front cushion. The policeman mounted
the box beside the coachman, and the carriage was driven off. Almost
immediately after, the Bishop on Exeter and Lord Montressor entered the
carriage of the latter, and followed on the same road.