THE ARRESTED BRIDE.
“Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense, nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax
Carved to the very life, was there;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.”—_Scott._
A rapid drive of an hour’s length, brought the party to Horsford, the
seat of Sir George Bannerman, knight, the magistrate who had issued the
warrant.
A winding avenue led from the highway to the hall.
On arriving before the main entrance, the foremost carriage drove up,
and the footman sprang down from behind, opened the door and let down
the steps, while the policeman got off the box and stood guard.
Mr. Oldfield alighted first, and handed out Estelle, who, pale as death,
with her face still wrapped in her bridal vail, mechanically permitted
herself to be conducted by her aged friend up the broad marble stairs
leading into the hall.
They were preceded by the policeman, who knocked at the door, which was
opened by a footman in attendance; while just within, the fat,
gouty-looking porter, sat indolently in his arm-chair, with gold
spectacles on his nose, reading the “Times.”
The policeman telegraphed to this dignitary, who, without leaving his
seat, or raising his eyes from his paper, answered—
“In the library. Here, John, show this party up.”
The footman who had admitted them, now came forward, indicated his
forehead with his forefinger, by way of obeisance to the lady and the
clergymen, beckoned the officer, and led the way up the broad oaken
stairs to a long gallery above, at the extreme end of which was the door
of the library, where the preliminary examination was to be conducted.
Opening this door, the man announced—
“P’lice an’ pris’ners y’ honor,” admitted them, closed the door, and
retired.
The party found themselves in a rich, antique, and handsomely-furnished
library, the walls of which were alternately lighted with stained glass
gothic windows, and lined with richly wrought and well-filled
book-cases.
At the upper extremity of this room, behind a long table, covered with a
green cloth, sat Sir George Bannerman; on his right hand was his
secretary, and near the end of the table, on the same side, were
gathered Madame L’Orient, Monsieur Victoire, and a little French Abbe.
Near the magistrate stood Lord Dazzleright.
As the venerable clergyman advanced, supporting his fragile charge, Sir
George arose, gravely acknowledged their presence by a slight bow, and
sat down again.
The officer preceding the party, laid his warrant before the magistrate,
and said—
“Here is the prisoner, your worship,” bowed, and retired a step or two.
Sir George took up the document, and while he was looking over it in
silence, the library door was once more opened, and—
“His lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, and Lord Montressor, to attend the
examination,” were announced.
They entered gravely, bowed in silence to Sir George Bannerman, who
acknowledged their salutation by a momentary lifting of his eyes and a
nod, and then took their stand upon the side near Lord Dazzleright.
“Was this _well_ done, Sir George Bannerman?” vehemently inquired Mr.
Oldfield.
“To what do you allude, sir?” asked the knight, without lifting his
glance from the document in his hand.
“I allude to the arrest of the lady.”
“Reverend sir, one of your excellent judgment should know that the
_law_, no more than the _gospel_, is a ‘respecter of persons.’”
“Assuredly not, Sir George! but you were in the church at the time this
illegal marriage took place; you heard the solemn adjuration of the Lord
Bishop officiating, that—if any man there present knew cause why the
contracting parties should not be joined in matrimony, he should then
and there declare it. Sir, you sat there, with this unhappy lady’s
husband by your side, and heard this solemn adjuration, and you did not
speak! But speedily after the accomplishment of the act, you issued the
warrant for the lady’s arrest. Sir George Bannerman, I ask you once
more, _was_ this act, on the part of a Christian, a gentleman, and a
magistrate, _well done_?”
“Sir, a distinguished professor of the orthodox principles of human free
agency like yourself, should understand that the _law_, no more than the
_gospel_, interferes arbitrarily to prevent crime; that it can only
judge and punish; but sir, we lose time; will you have the kindness to
stand aside and let me see the prisoner?”
With a deep-drawn sigh, bearing to Heaven an earnest prayer for the
despairing one at his side, the good clergyman withdrew a step, and
Estelle was left standing unsupported before the green table.
“Madam, will you be kind enough to unvail?” said the magistrate.
Estelle turned aside her vail, revealing a face so deathly in its hue
that they who beheld it suddenly blanched in sympathy.
“Your name, Madam, is Estelle L’Orient?”
She bowed assent.
The magistrate then took up the warrant for her arrest, read it aloud to
her, replaced it on the table, and addressing her, said,
“Estelle L’Orient, you are herein charged, under oath, by Madame
Gabrielle L’Orient, here present, with having this day, at the parish
church of Hyde, in and during the life of your husband, Victoire
L’Orient, now living in these realms, feloniously intermarried with
George Charles, Viscount Montressor, said marriage constituting an act
of bigamy, against the peace and dignity of the king’s majesty, and
punishable by transportation, according to the statute in such case made
and provided. What have you to say to this charge?”
“Nothing here, sir;—much perhaps hereafter,” answered the deep plaintive
voice of the accused.
“Sir George Bannerman,” said Lord Dazzleright, coming to the side of the
lady, “I stand here as the counsel of Lady Montressor, if she will
accept my services, and I take exception to the question put to her, as
improper.”
“Madam, do you retain Lord Dazzleright?” demanded the magistrate.
“I do, sir.”
“You are then the counsel of Estelle L’Orient?”
“I am the counsel of Lady Montressor.”
“_Ah! my lord! do not breathe that stainless name here!_ I have no claim
to it! Thank God for this, at least—that whatever happens, I can bring
no reproach upon that honored name! for it is not mine! I am poor
Estelle L’Orient, and yonder name is really my owner,” said the
thrilling passionate voice of the lady, as she shuddered and averted her
head.
“Hush! hush my child! You must really keep silence, and permit me to
conduct this case. I shall deny their charges _ab initio_ and _in toto_,
as we lawyers say. You are no more the legal wife of yonder vagrant than
you are of——well let that pass! You are the Viscountess Montressor.”
“_Oh! no, no, no!_ great heaven, no! that sacred name—Lord Montressor’s
spotless name—must be kept holy from the sorrow and shame that is
gathering darkly over that of poor Estelle L’Orient.”
While this low and hurried conversation was going on between the counsel
and his client, the magistrate sat back in his chair, waiting. Seeing
them at length silent, he leaned forward and inquired of the counsel if
they were ready to hear the charge.
“We are ready,” replied Lord Dazzleright.
“Then I will proceed to call the witnesses—Madame Gabrielle L’Orient
will please to take the stand.”
The small, deep set, quick, black eyes of the little old Frenchwoman,
scintillated with cunning malignity, as she came forward. The oath was
duly administered and she commenced her deposition. First, she
identified the accused as Estelle, the wife of Victoire L’Orient, and
then in polished French but broken English she testified to having
witnessed the marriage of her son, Victoire L’Orient, and her pupil,
Estelle Morelle, in the church of St. Etienne, at Paris, on the 13th day
of November, 18—: and, further, to the fact of the said Victoire and
Estelle having lived together as man and wife, for the period of one
year, under her roof, at No. 31 Rue St. Genevieve, Paris.
While this witness was giving in her evidence, Lord Dazzleright
whispered his client,
“If there is any point in her testimony, to which you take exception,
let me know it!”
“The marriage was a private one, and unless I was grossly deceived, she
knew nothing of it at the time,” murmured Estelle, struggling against
the death-like despair that threatened the annihilation of her
faculties.
“One moment, if you please,” said Lord Dazzleright, as the witness was
about to retire from her position, “this alleged marriage is understood
to have been a strictly private one—how then did it happen, Madame, that
you witnessed it?”
“I suspect the children of their intention. I follow, I pursue, I enter
the chapel of St. Etienne. I witness the marriage.”
No cross-questioning could drive the woman from this point; but on the
contrary, only tended to consolidate and confirm her in her
loose-jointed evidence.
The next witness called was the little old French priest, who, having
been duly sworn, first identified the accused, and then testified to
having both witnessed and assisted at the marriage of Estelle Morelle
and Victoire L’Orient, which was solemnized on the 13th of November,
18—, by the Abbe Pierre Leroux, in the church of St. Etienne, Paris.
The cross-questioning of this witness elicited nothing to throw
discredit upon his testimony.
The certificate was then exhibited. And the fact of the first marriage
seemed established. The next proceeding was to prove the identity of
Victoire L’Orient, as the living husband, and consequently as the legal
obstacle to the second nuptial. This was easily done by the testimony of
the mother and the priest. The next and final fact to establish, on the
part of the prosecution, was that of the second and so called felonious
marriage, that day celebrated at the parish church of Hyde. This was
formally proved by the testimony of the same witnesses.
Then Lord Dazzleright, with a smile of encouragement, stooped and spoke
aside to his client.
“Reassure yourself, Lady Montressor! This was from first to last a
series of conspiracies; I shall easily overthrow them with their own
weapons; hoist these engineers with their own petard——”
Then turning to the magistrate, his smile of benevolence changed to one
of flashing scorn, as he said,—
“We might commence, your worship, by contesting the legality of these
proceedings, from the moment of the issuing of the warrant, in itself
informal, as not containing the name of the accused, which is not
Estelle L’Orient, but Estelle Viscountess Montressor. But we choose to
rest our defense, not upon a mere verbal form, but on the deepest and
firmest foundations of justice and truth. We shall therefore commence by
denying _ab initio_ and _in toto_ the validity of the alleged marriage,
said to have taken place in the chapel of St. Etienne, in the city of
Paris, showing the same to have been a felonious act, the result of a
conspiracy, in which my client was not principal or party, but victim—a
crime punishable by the statute laws of France with fine and
imprisonment. I shall show that, dating from the edict of the _14th of
Henry II._, the statute laws of France forbid the marriage of a minor
without the knowledge and consent of her parents or guardians, and
vacate such marriage, so contracted, as illegal, invalid, and of none
effect.”[1]
Footnote 1:
In the old chronicle of the Kings of France from Pharamond to Henri
Quatre, written by the Sieur de Mezerai, occurs this paragraph, which
is curious as the origin of the statute affecting the marriage of
minors in France. The date is 1557 of our Lord, and 10 of the reign of
Henry II.
“One cannot too often, or in too large characters, make mention of a
couple of Edicts which were made this year: The one, to retrench the
abuses of Clandestine Marriage, vacated all Marriages made by the
Children of any Family without the consent of their Father and Mother,
unless the Sons when they contracted were above Thirty years of Age
and the Daughters above Five and Twenty. And to put the stronger curb
on the amorous fancies of young, giddy People, they added the penalty
of Disinheritance. The particular Interest of the Constable (De
Montmorenci) procured this Edict. His eldest son had engaged himself
with the Damoiselle De Pienne, a very beautiful Woman and of a good
House, by verbal Contract: the Father desired to disengage him from
her, to match him with the King’s natural daughter, the Widow of
Horace Farnese.”
It is not our intention to follow the “learned counsel” minutely through
all his argument, in which he displayed much zeal, legal lore, ingenuity
and tact, and by which he temporarily effected, in the feelings and
sentiments of all his hearers, with the exception of the prosecuting
party, a powerful revulsion in favor of the accused. He exposed without
mercy all the intriguing arts by which this designing French governess
and her unprincipled son had conspired to inveigle their pupil, then a
mere child, into a clandestine marriage, by which they hoped eventually
to enjoy her immense wealth. He dwelt upon the moral turpitude of that
treacherous teacher in having thus betrayed the sacred trust reposed in
her by the parents of the child confided to her care. He said that the
criminal arts of this intriguing mother and son should avail them
nothing, either in shape of profit or vengeance. And he concluded by
concentrating an immense mass of law, testimony and precedence upon the
point that this _quasi_ marriage into which they had conspired to entrap
their pupil, was, without the knowledge and consent of the parents or
guardians of the child-bride, null, ‘void’, invalid, and therefore could
not form a legal obstacle to the validity of the real and authorized
marriage that day solemnized at the parish church at Hyde. He then
required the discharge of his client from custody, and sat down.
Sir George Bannerman acknowledged the conclusion of his argument by a
nod, and turned his face toward the witnesses for the prosecution as if
to express himself ready to hear any thing they might have to advance
against this. The prosecuting party had no counsel, but in the absence
of a better lawyer, Madame L’Orient proved in her own person, despite
her sex and her broken English, an “indifferent good,” or at least very
shrewd advocate. And it was the shrill voice of the little yellow,
shriveled, and beady eyed old French woman, that replied to the polished
Lord Dazzleright.
She prayed Monsieur the Magistrate to remind himself that the
_statement_ that Mademoiselle Estelle Morelle had been married to
Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, without the knowledge and consent of her
parents, was only an _assumption_ which required proof, while on the
contrary, the _fact_ that this marriage between Monsieur Victoire and
Mademoiselle Estelle had been celebrated with the knowledge and consent,
and in the presence of Mademoiselle’s _guardian_, was already proved,
was established, was unquestioned; for that she herself, Madame
Gabrielle L’Orient, in her capacity of governess and teacher, had borne
the relation of guardian to Mademoiselle Morelle. And as guardian of
Mademoiselle, her presence at the marriage of Mademoiselle was all that
was needed to make that marriage a legal transaction.
Having given this testimony, the vindictive little woman—her black eyes
scintillating in triumph—sat down.
Lord Dazzleright arose and scornfully disclaimed the protestations of
Madame L’Orient, utterly denying that her office of teacher could have
invested her, for a moment, with the rights of legal guardianship over
her pupil.
Madame replied that she was not only teacher, but sole custodian,
governess and guardian of Mademoiselle for many years.
Here commenced a discussion upon this subject, ended at last by the
magistrate, whom it was easy to suspect of a leaning on the side of the
prosecution, and who now said—
“This particular point is a matter for the adjudication of their
lordships the judges at the assizes. Has the defense any thing further
to urge?”
“Yes—for though you choose to consider the illegality of the first
marriage a questionable matter—nay, though you should decide to hold it
a legal and binding transaction, yet—we have much to advance, why my
client should not be held to answer to the grave charges upon which she
stands before your worship. The English law, as also the law of all
Christian nations, very righteously constitutes the _intention_ the
vital part of the crime; now that my client had not the faintest shadow
of _intention_ or purpose to violate the statute by her second, and as
we hold it to be, her _only_ real marriage—is easy of proof. Two years
ago there was a published account of the death of this man, upon the
occasion of the wreck of the _Duc D’Anjou_. This account was translated
from the _Courrier de France_ into the daily Times, a copy of which I
have just received from Lord Montressor, and have the honor of laying
before your worship,” said Lord Dazzleright, drawing the paper from his
pocket and placing it upon the table before the magistrate, who took it
up and read, while the advocate proceeded—
“My client saw this announcement, and believing herself to be the legal
widow of this man, retired from society and remained in seclusion some
eighteen months; at the end of which time only, she accepted the
addresses of Lord Montressor, to whom she was this morning espoused as
you have learned.”
“But Monsieur the Magistrate! but Monsieur! I pen—I indite—I write
much—many letters to Madame Victoire L’Orient! I advise—I inform her of
the life of my son, her husband!” here vehemently interrupted the
mercurial little Frenchwoman.
“Madame, you are disorderly and will consult your best interests by
being quiet,” said the magistrate. Then addressing the counsel for the
defense, he said—“This point also is one for the adjudgment of their
lordships.”
There was a short pause, at the end of which the magistrate inquired—
“Has the defense any thing further to advance?”
“The defense has nothing further to advance _here_ and _now_,” replied
Lord Dazzleright, with a peculiar emphasis.
“Then, Madam,” said the magistrate, addressing Estelle, “I consider this
a case for court, and I shall therefore bind you over for trial to
answer the charge of bigamy, at the next assizes to be holden at the
city of Exeter.”
The pale and drooping girl who had remained all this time with her face
bowed and hidden upon her hands in the folds of her bridal vail, now
raised her eyes in wild affright, looking so much like an amazed and
terrified child in the grasp of some horrible power, that the good
clergyman, Mr. Oldfield, hastened to her side and stooped to say—
“It is but a form, my child. No action can be successfully sustained
against you. Trust in God, and take courage.”
“Have you bail?” inquired Sir George Bannerman, who had just been giving
some private directions to his secretary.
Estelle shook her head—poor girl, she did not fairly understand the
purport of the question.
“Lady Montressor _has_ bail, your worship. The Reverend Mr. Oldfield and
the Reverend Mr. Trevor stand ready to enter into a recognizance with
her, or rather with her husband, Lord Montressor, for her appearance at
court,” said Lord Dazzleright.
The magistrate turned to direct his secretary to fill out the proper
forms. And while that functionary was busily scribbling, Estelle turned
to Lord Dazzleright pleading,
“For the love of the Saviour, my lord! do not, oh! do not continue to
drag the spotless name of Montressor through the mire of my misery! I
would rather,—oh! far rather, that conviction should come with all its
train of horrors for me, than that I should be saved, at the expense of
one speck upon that stainless name.”
Without replying to her prayer, the advocate, turning toward Lord
Montressor, said—
“Will your lordship be so good as to come and speak to this lady? you
may be able to bring her to reason.”
Lord Montressor, who had heard or divined the purport of Estelle’s
plaintive petition, and who desired nothing more than the opportunity of
reassuring her, now came to her side and said,
“Estelle, my beloved, look up! I hold you as my dear and honored wife,
in whose cause it is both my duty and inclination to risk, if needed,
life and fortune, and sacred honor. Estelle, beloved! you know that
Baron Dazzleright is at this time esteemed the most eminent lawyer in
the kingdom. His legal opinion is considered of the very first
importance. He holds the secret marriage into which you, as an infant,
were entrapped, ten years since, to be perfectly void; and, on the other
hand, the marriage solemnized between us this day, to be perfectly
valid. His opinion upon the validity of our marriage, supported by the
authorities he adduces, and the developments of the last two hours, has
decided my course. I stand upon the legality of the ceremony this day
performed in the church of Hyde; I claim the rights of a husband to
protect and shelter you; and here pledge my life if needful, my fortune,
my unblemished name and sacred honor to bear you blameless through, the
severe ordeal. Therefore, _Lady Montressor_, do not again seek to cast
off the support that is most righteously your own, nor the honorable
name that does not deserve repudiation at your hands. Remember, that it
is your _husband_ who requires this of you!”
Lord Montressor spoke with an air of beautifully blended deference,
tenderness, and dignity, almost impossible to resist.
Lord Dazzleright’s fine face beamed with sympathetic admiration—and
clasping the hand of the noble speaker, he said—
“God bless you, Lord Montressor, for you are very right! and if there is
a man—peer, or prince—in the empire who could take, unquestioned, the
position that you now take and discharge with delicacy and discretion,
its difficult duties, that man is your lordship. God bless you?”
But all this while Estelle, with her clasped hands hanging down, her
head drooped upon her breast, and her eyes lowered to the ground,
remained in mournful silence. Nor did she once change her position, or
look up, or speak, until the magistrate called the two sureties to sign
the recognizance that was now ready. The two clergymen advanced to the
table. Lord Dazzleright also followed, and she was left standing alone,
or guarded, as it were, by Lord Montressor.
“Has my Stella no word or glance for me?” he inquired.
“Oh! my Lord—my lord—do you not _know_ then that poor Estelle’s soul is
at your feet, in acknowledgment of your matchless constancy! But, Lord
Montressor, it must not be as you have said. I may not lean upon your
noble strength, nor bear your honored name, and will not, my lord—_will
not_,” said Estelle, with mournful dignity.
“Does my dearest Stella, my gentle _bride_,—with all her graces,—lack
the lovely grace of submission?”
“Poor Estelle, your _servant_, my lord, possesses with all her faults
and weaknesses, the capacity and strength to suffer alone, alone! rather
than drag one whom she honors down to share her degradation.”
“Your signature is wanted to this document, madam,” said Sir George
Bannerman, addressing the prisoner.
“Remain here, dear Estelle. I shall sign that instrument in your
behalf,” said Lord Montressor, leaving her side and advancing to the
table.
“Lord Montressor will enter into a recognizance with Messieurs Oldfield
and Trevor, on the part of his wife,” said Baron Dazzleright.
“It will not do. The prisoner must sign for herself,” said the
magistrate.
“Be it so, then. Estelle—Lady Montressor—if you have any regard for me,
sign only the name that I have this day bestowed upon you,” whispered
Lord Montressor, as he led her forward to the table.
“Lady Montressor, I add my voice to his lordship’s, and do beseech you,
for the sake of all who love you, to comply,” said the Baron.
Estelle turned upon Lord Montressor a smile, full of holy
self-renunciation, took the pen, and with a firm hand signed the paper.
Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright, and the two clergymen bent eagerly
forward to read the signature. It was—ESTELLE L’ORIENT.
“Oh, child, child! Why have you written thus?” questioned Lord
Montressor, with a look of distress.
“This girl will ruin her own cause,” said Lord Dazzleright, in a tone of
vexation.
“Yes, my lords, she _will_ ruin her own cause rather than insure it at
the expense of the noble and the good. I am poor, lost Estelle, wife of
Victoire L’Orient, and have not the slightest claim even upon the
Viscount Montressor’s countenance—to say nothing of his noble name.”
“We will see about that, my fair fanatic,” said the Baron.
As it was now very late in the afternoon, and the setting sun was
shining aslant the sombre library wall, and as Sir George Bannerman
announced the sitting at end, and betrayed symptoms of impatience to be
gone, the parties,—both prosecutors and defendants, prepared to retire.
“You will go with me to Bloomingdale, my child, and remain as long as
your friends can spare you. Mrs. Oldfield will be very—ahem!—will do
every thing she possibly can to prove her affection and respect for you,
and to make your sojourn in our humble home as comfortable and agreeable
as circumstances will admit, my dear,” said old Mr. Oldfield to his
protege.
“We thank you very sincerely for your offered hospitality, reverend sir;
but since taking legal advice my plans are again changed—we shall adhere
to the first arrangement, which was, that Lady Montressor and myself
should go down to Dorset and spend a month at our castle of Montressor,”
said the Viscount, with calm emphasis.
“Your lordship doubtless best knows the just and proper grounds of your
action,” said the venerable man, bowing gravely, but looking, withal, so
uneasy, that Lord Montressor beckoned the baron to his side, and said:
“Lord Dazzleright, will you be good enough to inform these gentlemen
whom you consider to be the legal protector of this lady?”
“Unquestionably, reverend sirs, I hold the only legal protector and
proper custodian of this lady to be her husband, the Lord Viscount
Montressor.”
“But,” said the old clergymen, hesitatingly, “there is _another_ who
claims that relation to this lady, and whose claims the magistrate,
however unjustly, certainly favors.”
“And whose claims to any thing else but transportation will certainly be
set aside by the courts,” said the baron.
“But in the mean time, for the lady’s own sake, had she not better
remain with me, or some other friend, until the decision of the courts
has confirmed her position?” pleaded Mr. Oldfield.
“Decidedly not, sir; it would argue a doubt of her position—a position
upon the assuredness and stability of which I am willing to stake my
reputation. As the legal adviser of Lady Montressor, I certainly counsel
her ladyship to place herself under the powerful protection of her
husband, and accompany him to Montressor Castle, to pass the time until
the meeting of the Judges.”
“Come, my love, you hear what the baron says. It is getting late. Take
leave of your friends, and permit me to hand you into the carriage which
waits, and drive to your father’s house, where we will pass the night,
and since to-morrow morning we will set out for Dorset,” said Lord
Montressor, who was very anxious to remove his bride from the scene.
“My father! Ah, Lord Montressor, do you deem that in all respects, Sir
Parke Morelle resembles _you_! My father will never look upon my face
again, were that look needed to save my soul alive. Nay, best and most
honored my lord, I _dare_ not cross my father’s threshold, and I _will_
not cross my lord’s. If ever a Lady Montressor sets foot within
Montressor Castle, she will not first have borne the branded name of
Estelle L’Orient. Farewell, my lord. I repeat now, what I said before,
whatever may finally become of poor Estelle, may God forever bless and
love you, Lord Montressor,” she said, bowing her forehead for a moment
upon his hand that she had clasped between her own; and then releasing
it, and turning away, she addressed the old minister, saying gently:
“I am at your disposal, Mr. Oldfield, if indeed, you still offer the
shelter of your roof to one so lost as I am.”
“Gladly, my child, will I receive you; and let me tell you, Lady
Montressor——”
“Ah, _you_ also, Mr. Oldfield; you will not spare my lord’s name,”
interrupted Estelle.
“I very much suspect that it is your legal name, Lady Montressor. I have
the greatest confidence in the opinions of Lord Dazzleright upon all
_legal_ questions, though I am not sure I would be guided by his
judgment in religious questions. Thus I think his opinion upon the
validity of your marriage is likely to be quite right, while his advice
to you, (founded upon that opinion), that you should accompany Lord
Montressor to his castle in Dorset, there to abide the action of the
court, I consider to be erroneous. Your own instincts, by the grace of
God, have been a better guide. It is fitting that you should remain with
Mrs. Oldfield, unless your parents claim you from us,” whispered the
venerable man, drawing the arm of his protege within his own, and
preparing to leave the room.
But Lord Montressor, who had remained a few minutes in mournful silence
now spoke:
“Estelle, Lady Montressor, my wife, I have not said ‘farewell,’ and I
disclaim your right thus to withdraw yourself from my lawful
protection.”
“Lord Montressor, your poor servant, Estelle, who would lay down her
life to serve your lordship, will not even at _your_ command, take one
step to compromise or injure you! Once more, farewell, my lord. And our
God forever love and bless you;” and with gentle firmness, Estelle
lowered her vail and turned away.
Still Lord Montressor would have detained and expostulated with her, had
not the Bishop of Exeter here come up and reasoned with his lordship.
“Lady Montressor does well. I have no doubt that Lord Dazzleright is
_legally correct_, but he is _morally wrong_. I have no doubt that the
marriage this day solemnized at Hyde is perfectly valid and
indissoluble; but inasmuch as its validity is contested and remains to
be confirmed by the action of the court, I declare it my opinion as a
Christian minister that Lady Montressor is _religiously correct_ in
withdrawing herself from the society of your lordship until such time as
the court has adjudged her position; and that any other course would
expose her ladyship to much censure.”
“I see, now, that you are entirely right, my Lord Bishop. Our wishes
often blind us to what is expedient as well as to what is right.
Although, indeed, I wished chiefly to consult her ladyship’s comfort and
interests. I thank you, sir, that you have placed this subject in its
proper light before me,” said Lord Montressor, frankly. Then going up to
the bride, he said:
“Estelle, love, you go now with my full consent and approbation. Mr.
Oldfield, it is I, her husband, who commits _Lady Montressor_ to your
care,” he concluded, laying a marked emphasis upon the title with which
he wished to invest her.
“Your lordship does well. And Lady Montressor shall receive the best
possible care and attention while she sojourns under our humble roof,”
replied the aged clergyman. And, bowing to the group, he led his charge
from the library, through the long passage, down the broad stairs,
across the wide hall to the entrance door, and thence down the steps to
the carriage in which he placed her.
Meanwhile, Madame L’ Orient, Victoire, and the little fat Abbe,
chattering like a trio of mammoth magpies, had got into their chaise and
driven off.
Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright and the Bishop of Exeter, now came
down the steps, entered the carriage of the viscount, and took the road
to Hyde.
Mr. Trevor came out, and joined Mr. Oldfield and Lady Montressor, and
their carriage was ordered to drive to Bloomfield.