ESTELLE.
“Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
Hath naught to fear from outward blow;
Who falls from all she knows of bliss
Cares little into what abyss.”—BYRON.
Meanwhile how passed the time with her who, stricken at her meridian
culmination of honor and happiness, had fallen so suddenly and so low?
We left her seated in the carriage with Messrs. Oldfield and Trevor, on
the road to Bloomingdale parsonage. Closely enveloped in the bridal
vail, which she had as yet no opportunity of changing, she sat back in a
corner of the carriage.
She was too absorbed in her despair to notice the beautiful country
through which their road passed, winding among wooded hills, down
through flowery dales, or between high hedges, thickly matted and
overgrown with the fragrant wild rose, the maythorn, and the sweet
honeysuckle, and shutting in some richly-cultivated field or garden;—or
to listen to the music of the thousand choristers of nature, now singing
in concert their vesper hymn.
The sun went down amid a gorgeous blazonry of crimson, purple and gold;
darkness crept over the heavens and the earth, and the stars came out,
first one by one, and then in scores, and then in hundreds, until
myriads of angel eyes seemed to look down from the firmament, and
presently the full moon arose and flooded all this beautiful scene with
silvery splendor; and still Estelle, buried in the depths of her
despair, remained unconscious of time, or of the change of lights.
Neither of her companions addressed her, thinking it was better that,
after so much excitement, she should be left to her own reflections, if
haply she might gain repose. Neither did they, in their respect for her
grief, speak the one to the other; the ride passed in almost total
silence.
It was late, and the moon rode high in the heavens, when the carriage
turned into the narrow, shaded and decliving road leading down to
Bloomingdale.
The place, as its name indicated, was a small, deep, verdant dell,
settled down among crowded hills, in the midst of which nestled near
together the little antique gothic church and the cottage parsonage; the
cottage garden being divided from the church-yard only by a hedge, and
the whole surrounded by a stone wall; and all—church, cottage, wall and
hedge, so completely overgrown with moss, ivy, and creeping vines, and
so densely crowded with shrubs and trees, as to be indistinguishable
except by the spire rising from the clump of elms, and indicating the
character of the obscured outlines.
“We are at home, dearest child,” said Mr. Oldfield, as the carriage
stopped.
The footman sprang off from behind, opened the door and let down the
steps.
Mr. Trevor alighted, followed by Mr. Oldfield, who handed out his
protege. They were before a low garden gate, surrounded by an arch all
overgrown with honeysuckles, whose pendent tendrils kissed their heads
in passing through. They entered by this a semi-circular walk, under a
lattice work, covered with grape vines, and leading around to the front
portico of the cottage, which was covered closely, as was the whole
house, with a matted growth of running roses, clematis, jessamine,
flowering ivy, and every description of beautiful and fragrant climbing
vine.
Within this green and blooming bower alight, in a shaded alabaster lamp,
shone purely as a moon over the darkly-polished oaken door.
The Rector drew the arm of his charge protectingly within his own, and
led her into this portico, and rapped.
His summons was answered by a neatly-dressed, red-cheeked, bright-eyed
servant maid, who opened the door and smiled and courtesied on seeing
her master; but immediately started and stared with open-mouthed wonder
at the white-vailed form shrinking near him.
“Come, come, Sarah my good girl, let us in! What are you thinking of?
Your mistress is——”
“Yes, sir, in the parlor!” exclaimed Sarah, recovering her self-command,
and springing aside.
“Show us in there.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sarah, opening a door on the left side of the hall, and
revealing one of the coziest of English home scenes.
It was a medium-sized parlor of faultless neatness and cleanliness,
comfortably carpeted and curtained; warmed by a glowing fire of seacoal,
in a polished steel grate, that the chilly spring evening rendered
acceptable; each side of this fire-place were deep recesses, from
ceiling to floor, filled on the left by a tall book-case of favorite
volumes, and on the right by a high cabinet of shells, minerals, ores,
coins, medallions, storied old china, and other objects of vertu. Soft,
deep sofas, easy chair, and foot-cushions, of various styles, to suit
every need, and tables and stands for every reasonable parlor purpose,
were conveniently arranged around.
But perhaps the most attractive article of furniture was the neat
tea-table that stood in the midst of the room, before the glowing grate,
covered with a milk-white, ample damask table-cloth that reached the
floor, and laden with its glistening service of silver-plate and white
china.
In an arm-chair a little to the left of the table, sat a stately old
lady of perhaps sixty-five years of age, looking not unlike the
dignified housekeeper of Hyde Hall. She was arrayed in a stiff black
gown, with a surplice bosom, open to reveal a glimpse of the snow-white
muslin handkerchief crossed over the bosom within; a white muslin cap,
with a very high and stiffly-starched crown, surmounted her silvery gray
hair and severe physiognomy, and added height if not dignity to her
appearance. On the other side, between her chair, and the corner of the
fire-place, was a stand on which stood a lamp and a volume of what might
have been religious tracts, just closed and laid aside, with her
spectacles between the leaves to keep the place.
Had Estelle been in a condition to notice any thing, she might have been
repelled by the severe aspect of this lady, who the reader has already
guessed to be Mrs. Oldfield, the Rector’s wife.
Mrs. Oldfield belonged to the old school of English women of the middle
classes. A rigid pietist, a severe disciplinarian, a model wife, mother
and housekeeper; she had reared, in high respectability, a large family,
had seen her sons established in professions, had married off her
daughters to eligible and responsible men—in a word, had completed her
life’s work without a flaw or blemish, and now at the age of sixty-five
had sat down in perfect self-satisfaction and very little charity for
those who had been less fortunate.
As she saw the party enter, she arose, somewhat stiffly, between
formality, age and rheumatism, and stood ready to receive her guests;
but soon stared almost as wildly as had Sarah Copley on perceiving the
vailed bridal figure that hung upon her husband’s arm; her first idea
was, that their old bachelor friend, Mr. Trevor, had resolved upon
taking to himself a wife, and brought the lady there to be married; she
frowned formidably in advance at this suppositions irregularity.
Mr. Oldfield sighed deeply as he noticed the rigor of her first regards
of one to whom he had dared to promise on her part a mother’s tender
care; he silently prayed that when she should know all, the weight of
her righteous indignation might fall only on the guilty, not on the
innocent unfortunate. But her austere aspect, while as yet she knew
nothing to the disadvantage of the guest, (but that she seemed to be
placed in an embarrassing position,) filled him with forebodings as to
her future treatment of his charge; while he thanked heaven for the
mental abstraction from outward objects that so shielded the already
wounded heart of poor Estelle from the arrows of unkindness in her eyes.
All these thoughts on either side passed in much less time than it has
taken to tell.
“This is Lady Montressor, Mrs. Oldfield,” said the Rector, presenting
his protege.
“Lady—Mon—tressor?” slowly repeated the hostess, gazing searchingly into
the pale, worn, most despairing, yet perfectly beautiful face, that with
its downcast eyes, was now unvailed and bowed before her.
She knew that Mr. Oldfield had gone to Hyde that morning to assist at
the marriage of Lord Montressor and Miss Morelle, whom by the way she
had not seen for years, and could not now recognize in the
sorrow-stunned woman before her; but why should Lady Montressor, who was
married this morning, be here alone in bridal array, to-night?
“Oh! I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” she said at length, recovering her
presence of mind, though by no means her astonishment, and offering her
own comfortable chair to her visitor—“Pray be seated, Lady Montressor.”
Estelle mechanically sank into the proferred seat.
Mr. Trevor greeted his hostess, who welcomed him kindly, and invited him
to sit down.
The Rector threw himself into his own favorite leathern chair, rubbed
his hands with an assumption of cheerful ease, and said—
“Now tea! tea! my dear! as quickly as it can be served. This lady
greatly needs refreshment, for I think she has not broken her fast since
morning.”
“But, perhaps, Lady Montressor would prefer first to retire to her room
and change her dress,” suggested the old lady, turning toward her guest
and gazing with no abatement of astonishment upon her strange attire,
wondering whether she had brought any baggage, and in fact wondering all
around the compass of which she formed the centre.
But Estelle did not reply to her suggestion, most likely did not
understand, or even hear it.
And Mr. Oldfield hastened to answer.
“No, my dear, I think not; her ladyship’s trunks have not yet arrived,
and I think she will not feel disposed to change until she retires for
the night, which should be soon, as she is really ill from fatigue.
Therefore, tea! tea! my good wife, as soon as possible.”
Then rising, and crossing over to Estelle, he said,
“You would like to retire soon, my child, would you not?”
“Oh! yes—yes,” she murmured in a voice nearly extinct with grief and
weariness.
“But—_where is his lordship_?” very naturally inquired the correct old
gentlewoman.
“Lord Montressor—is—ahem!—not here at the present time,” replied the
Rector, pointedly; but seeing that this very direct answer failed to
enlighten and satisfy his lady, he added, “Come, come, my dear! there is
no misunderstanding between Lord and Lady Montressor; they are on
excellent terms. Well, of course, there is _something_ to be explained,
which you shall hear in time! meanwhile, my dear, tea, tea!”
It was some comfort to be told that there _was_ something real and not
to be left to imagine herself under the influence of a wierd dream; and
so the excellent woman, set somewhat more at ease upon the subject of
this strange bridal apparition, rang and ordered tea, which was
immediately served.
“Suffer me to relieve you, my child,” said the Rector, gently, but
rather awkwardly, officiating as lady’s maid and unfastening and
removing the vail and wreath from her brow. “There, let me draw your
easy chair to the table. Do you hear me, dear child?” he inquired,
uneasy at beholding her look of apathetic despair.
“Oh! yes, yes, I hear, understand, and thank you, for this and for all.
I know—I remember, that but for you, I should have passed this
night—that was to have been my wedding-night,—in prison,” she murmured
in a deep heart-thrilling tone.
“‘_In prison!_’” Mrs. Oldfield had heard these fearful words, and
involuntarily echoed them!
“Do not mind her, my dear Madam—she—I mean, don’t mind her,” whispered
Mr. Trevor, to his hostess, whose astonishment had returned with a
vengeance.
Estelle, had she been less absorbed in her profound sorrow, might have
noticed the shocked and scandalized expression of the old lady’s
countenance; but as it was, the severe regards of Mrs. Oldfield fell
harmlessly upon her whom despair had rendered invulnerable.
“Come, my child, you must really force yourself to take something.
Endeavor now to swallow some tea and toast, for the sake of one in whose
name I speak to you,” said the Rector, gently placing his charge at the
table.
Silently and mechanically Estelle did all that was required of her,
though the act of swallowing was almost impossible. And now the
deferential care of the two clergymen for their fair charge again
modified Mrs. Oldfield’s ill suspicions of her guest.
Directly after tea, at the suggestion of Mr. Oldfield, the bell was
rung, and the little bright-eyed maid, Sarah Copley, was summoned to
show Lady Montressor to her chamber.
Mrs. Oldfield gave some directions in a low voice, aside to her Abigail,
who courtesied, lighted a night-lamp, and stood ready to attend her
ladyship.
Silently and mechanically Estelle arose and bowing good-night to the
circle, followed her attendant from the parlor.
When they had disappeared, Mr. Oldfield told the story of Lady
Montressor’s arrest at the altar, and the subsequent developments
relating to her school history. But no logic or eloquence of the
narrator, no palliating or explaining of the circumstances, could serve
to lessen in Mrs. Oldfield’s estimation the moral turpitude of her whom
this rigorous judge persisted in regarding as a sinner of the deepest
dye. And the anxious and distressed rector had the utmost difficulty in
obtaining a promise that the unhappy lady, while she remained their
guest, should be attended and served with the consideration due her
rank. But this promise once given, however reluctantly, he knew would be
faithfully performed.
Lady Montressor reached her chamber, which was the front room
immediately over the parlor, and which she found neatly and plainly
arranged, with a polished wax floor, maple furniture, and white dimity
curtains, bed hangings and chair covers, and warmed by a bright little
fire in the grate. The cheerful maid laid out a delicate cap and gown
from her mistress’s wardrobe, and stood waiting Lady Montressor’s
orders. Estelle gently declined her further attendance, and dismissed
her.
And then——
For the first time since her appalling calamity, Estelle found herself
alone.
She sank into an arm-chair, dropped her throbbing and burning forehead
upon her hands, and tried to recollect herself and think coherently. For
now that she was alone, the fearful events of the last twelve hours
seemed the wierd and horrible conjurations of fever or nightmare. It was
as difficult as it was terrible to realize her position.
The first stunning shock of the storm had passed. The thunderbolt had
fallen, and the charred and blackened ruins of her happiness lay all
around her. The whirlwind had crossed her path of life, sweeping away
her dearest treasures. The waters of affliction had rolled over her
soul, bearing off her most precious earthly hopes. Yes, the first shock
of the storm had passed; but desolation was within and around her, and
the clouds still lowered, dark, heavy, and threatening, over her devoted
head.
She rapidly reviewed the chain of circumstances—when scarcely fourteen
years of age, she had been ensnared by an intriguing governess, and an
unprincipled fortune-hunter, into a secret marriage, soon bitterly
repented by herself, and disrupted by the man’s felony, and now
pronounced to have been from the beginning illegal. After ten years of
separation, and two of supposed widowhood, she had that morning
contracted a second marriage with a party of the highest rank and
character, which was said to be legal and binding to all intents and
purposes. Arrested on leaving the church, upon a grave and degrading
charge, she had been discarded by her parents, who would probably leave
England forever, to conceal their humiliation under foreign skies; but
was protected, though most delicately, from a distance, through reverend
hands, by Lord Montressor, a man of stainless honor, who would be the
last on earth to sacrifice moral principle to human affection, and who
had in view of the law and the testimony, declared his determination to
stand by the legality of their late marriage, had given her the
protection of his name and title; and exacted of all others that they
should address her only by that; finally, she was bound over to appear
at the approaching assizes to answer the charge of a terrible and
shameful crime!
Such was the past and present.
What lay before her in the future?
Her trial.
It is true that her counsel and her few devoted friends, flattered
themselves and her with the promise of certain deliverance. But even her
limited experience taught her that very little dependence could be
placed upon the prejudgment of partisans, who always made it a point to
sustain the hopes of the accused by positive promises of acquittal,
which were not always confirmed by the verdict of the jury. The law was
proverbially uncertain. It was very possible she might be convicted.
And then—
A vision of the convict cell, the transport ship, the penal colonies,
swam darkly before her mind’s eyes, turning her soul sick with horror.
It was but for a moment, and then, strange to say, she regarded this
possible result as the condemned might regard the rack, the wheel, or
the stake—a frightful torture certainly, but one happily soon ending in
death. And merely saying—
“I should soon sink under it, and that would be well,”—she dismissed
the vision, and turned to look upon the other—scarcely the
happier—contingency.
She might be acquitted, as was confidently promised by her friends, upon
the ground of the illegality of the childish marriage into which she had
first been entrapped.
Such were the uncertain prospects of the future.
What now became her duty?
For, with whomsoever the adjudication of her legal position rested, that
of her moral one remained, under these as under other circumstances,
with herself alone.
What then was her duty?
It might be indicated by circumstances.
In the event of a conviction, her fate would be taken out of her own
hands, leaving her nothing to do, but simply to submit and be patient
until death should terminate her sufferings.
But on the other hand, with the issue of acquittal would come a mighty
moral problem, involving a terrible soul-struggle; for then Lord
Montressor would immediately claim her as his wife; nay more, he would
undoubtedly have his traveling carriage in waiting to convey her
directly from the scene of her sufferings to his seat in Dorset, or to
some other peaceful retreat he would provide, where the arms of
affection should uphold and nurse her back to life, health, and
serenity. The laws of the realm would sustain him in this course; the
world, ever ready to bow to success, would be his partisan; and deeper
and more potent than law, or world, the advocate in her own heart was
retained in his service and would plead his cause.
Should she admit his claim, yield herself up to his higher wisdom for
direction, and with a child’s unquestioning trust repose in the blessed
haven of his large love?
For a moment, a vision of this sweet rest beamed in upon her dark and
troubled soul like the holy light of heaven.
Should she give herself up to the happiness prepared for her?
There was a pause—a long pause, and silence in her soul. Her conscience
gave no affirmative.
She only saw herself at a fork in the road of life from which two paths
diverged.
The one splendid with sunshine, beautiful with verdure, brilliant with
flowers, and fragrant with their breath, musical with bird songs, and
more than all, blessed with the presence of her noble beloved, who stood
with outstretched arms, wooing her to enter. But, was Duty there?
The other, dark with cloud and storm, barren, silent, solitary,
desolate, no helping hand there held out to her, no encouraging voice
inviting her, she would tread it, if tread it she must, alone, with
tearful eyes and bleeding feet, and staggering steps; yet not unblessed,
if Duty were there.
How should she decide? The question pressed itself upon her conscience
for solution. She would not try to shake it off, to say—“Time enough
when the trial is over”—for she felt constrained to be prepared for the
result of that trial.
It was a terrible ordeal! one not to be safely passed without much
prayer.
Estelle sank upon her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for light to
see her duty, and for strength to follow it. Who ever sought the Source
of light and strength and came away blind and feeble?
The night spent in prayer brought a morning full of peace and courage.
She had decided what her course should be in the event of an acquittal.
It was eight o’clock before her bell summoned Sarah Copley, who entered
as usual, smilingly, and said:
“If you please, my lady, your trunks have come from Hyde, and will you
please to have them brought up here?”
“Yes, certainly, my girl, but how came they here?”
“Please, my lady, I don’t know; but when my master sent back the
Bishop’s carriage, he sent a note to Sir Parke Morelle, I know, because
I handed it to John, the footman, to deliver; and, please your ladyship,
the trunks came about half an hour ago, and your ladyship’s own maid
came with them.”
“What? Susan Copsewood?”
“Yes, your ladyship, shall I send her up? or would your ladyship accept
my services?”
“Thank you, my good girl, no; send up Susan Copsewood.”
“Yes, madam,” said the Abigail, disappearing.
In a few minutes after, Susan Copsewood entered, and immediately upon
the sight of her adored and unhappy mistress, sank down at her feet,
embraced her knees, and burst into tears.
Lady Montressor laid her hand upon the girl’s head in silent
benediction. There was no utility in words as yet, and none were spoken.
When, however, Susan had wept herself into calmness, and had arisen from
her feet, and stood waiting, Lady Montressor inquired—
“How are my father and mother, Susan?”
“Hem! dear lady, I always tell you the truth if I speak at all. But now
please excuse me from speaking,” said the girl, sadly.
“Ah! God, is it so?—have I nearly killed or maddened my parents?”
exclaimed Lady Montressor, growing deathly pale and faint, and sinking
into the nearest seat.
“Oh, then, I see I must speak! No, dear madam, Sir Parke and my lady are
not dead, nor are they any madder than they always were—saving your
presence; but, since I must tell the truth lest worse be thought, they
are both very angry.”
“It was to be expected! But what put it in your head, kind girl, to come
to me?”
“Why, no one put it there—it came there naturally, my lady! What else
could I do but come to you the first opportunity? Last night about
eleven o’clock, John Brownloe, the Bishop of Exeter’s footman, brought a
note from Mr. Oldfield to master. I saw it handed to master’s own man to
be carried up. Well! soon the bell was rung for me, and I was ordered to
pack up all your ladyship’s wardrobe, and have it ready to dispatch at
four o’clock this morning. So I went to work and did it. Just before I
strapped down the last trunk, master came in. And ‘Susan,’ says he,
‘have you strapped down all the trunks?’ ‘All but this, sir,’ says I.
‘Lift up the lid,’ says he. I did so, and he put a letter in——”
“A letter! Susan, my girl, where is it?” exclaimed Lady Montressor,
eagerly.
“In the buff-colored trunk, my lady, which they are going to bring up
presently.”
“Go on.”
“Well, as I was saying, dear lady, after I had packed every thing up,
and looked around to see if any thing had been forgotten, lo and behold
there was _myself_ that might have been left behind, if I hadn’t
recollected, so I got ready with the rest of your ladyship’s effects, to
be sent off. Thus at four o’clock in the morning I delivered myself
along with the trunks. ‘And who are you?’ says the drayman. ‘I wasn’t
hired to take no passengers, but only baggage,’ says he. ‘Very well,’
says I. ‘I’m part of her ladyship’s baggage—lend a hand and hoist me
up.’ So after a little more altercation, the stupid fellow let me up,
and here I am, your ladyship!”
“Thank you, Susan; you——”
She was here interrupted by a rap at the door.
It was a couple of plow-boys, who had brought up her trunks. As soon as
they were placed, and the boys had retired, Lady Montressor hastened to
take the keys from Susan, and unlock one—the one indicated as containing
the letter. There it lay upon the top of all the contents—she snatched
it eagerly. Oh! might it bear one word of peace and pardon to her
sorrow-stricken heart! She tore it open. It was an envelope, containing
a check for a thousand pounds, drawn in her favor, upon the bank of
Exeter. No more, not a line—not a word. With a deep sigh, Estelle laid
it aside, and sank into her chair.
The maid, with a tact and delicacy above her condition in life, selected
from among the many rich dresses of the trousseau, a morning robe of
pale gray silk—the plainest there, and laid it out for her lady’s use;
and then, without words, prepared her toilet; so that Lady Montressor
was ready to go below to meet the family at their nine o’clock
breakfast.
As she descended, the hall door was open, and she looked out. How
beautiful, on this bright May morning, was the parsonage and its
surroundings,—a wilderness of flowers, shrubs, and trees, with the old
church spire rising from the midst. Upon any other former day, this
sweet rural landscape would have filled the heart of Estelle with
delight; now, however, she only saw that it was lovely, and passed on to
the door on the right, leading into the parlor.
The family were already gathered there. As she opened the door, Mr.
Oldfield arose and came to meet her, and with a kind—
“Good-morning, my child; I hope you have rested well,” led her to the
table.
Mrs. Oldfield treated her with stately courtesy.
And Mr. Trevor, with a smile and bow, placed a chair for her use.
Breakfast, that seemed only to await her arrival, was immediately
served. During that meal Mrs. Oldfield never, except in strict
necessity, addressed her fair guest; and when she spoke it was with the
most ceremonious politeness. There was nothing to complain of, yet Lady
Montressor felt depressed and chilled; but she accepted this, as all
else, in the submissive spirit of expiation.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Trevor, whose charge lay in the
neighborhood of Montressor Castle, in the adjoining county of Dorset,
took leave, saying, as he held the hand of Lady Montressor:
“Though I depart from your presence, I remain in your service, my child.
When I can render you any assistance, command me; I am ever at your
orders.”
“I earnestly thank you, sir,” replied Estelle.
Mr. Trevor was gone.
Mr. Oldfield went out to make parish calls.
And Lady Montressor was left alone with her hostess, who, though polite,
was not congenial.
Soon, therefore, Estelle retired to her chamber.
Her faithful maid had set the room in order, and was now engaged in
unpacking and hanging up her dresses in the two clothes closets that
flanked the fire-place. They formed a part of that rich, tasteful, and
costly trousseau that had been provided for her bridal day’s
vanities,—trifles certainly they were at most; yet as mementos of the
past, the past, but only yesterday, yet seeming, by the yawning gulf
that divided it from to-day, so far apart, so long ago!—it was painful
to see them again! So Susan Copsewood instinctively felt, and she
hurried them out of sight.
“Have they sent my pocket Bible among the rest, Susan?”
“Yes, my lady, here it is,” and the faithful girl handed it to her
mistress.
Lady Montressor received the blessed volume with reverence, and sinking
into her arm-chair, opened its pages to seek for light and strength and
comfort.
“Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more
that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom you shall fear: Fear him
which after he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say
unto you, fear him.”
These were the words that first met her eye, and she felt them as a
message to her own soul. She read no further just then, but softly
dropping the book upon her lap, she fell into deep meditation upon the
word. Yes! amid all the storm and terror of her position, the question
presented to her soul was the old, old question of simply doing right or
doing wrong. And her Judge, above all judges was—God! Might he
strengthen her to do her awful duty!
While Lady Montressor meditated, read, and prayed in her chamber, the
news that she had sought sanctuary with the Rector of Bloomingdale
spread swiftly through the neighborhood. And many were the friends and
acquaintance of the Rector’s family, who _happened_ to drop in during
the course of that day. Some few among them were personally known to
Estelle, and these ventured to inquire for her; but Mrs. Oldfield, after
sending a message to her guest, and receiving an answer, replied stiffly
that Lady Montressor preferred to keep her chamber, and declined
visitors. And so day after day passed, during which Estelle secluded
herself, or only appeared when summoned to join the family at meal
times.
Lord Montressor, busy in her cause, forbore to visit or even to
correspond with his hapless bride.
Lord Dazzleright devoted the whole of his valuable time and great legal
ability to her case, and spoke confidently of a fortunate issue.
Once during the week he called upon his client, and was the first and
only visitor that Lady Montressor, during her self-sequestration,
received. He came to gather from her minute and detailed particulars of
her school life, and _quasi_ marriage, and having possessed himself of
all, and taken notes, he said:
“There can be no doubt as to the result of this trial. It will be not
only an acquittal, but a full and complete vindication. Therefore,
permit me to say, Lady Montressor, that you do wrong to withdraw
yourself from your husband’s protection. Your course argues, on your
part, a doubt of your true position, which may injure your case, when it
comes before the Assizes.”
“My lord, there is a higher tribunal, at which, some day, I shall have
to appear, and I must act in view of that,” replied the lady, in a deep,
liquid, melodious voice, that seemed to flow and ripple over the
fragments of a broken heart.
Lord Dazzleright looked suddenly into her face, and through its dark and
lovely features recognized the spirit that could “suffer and be
strong”—the spirit patient and firm as sad. He sighed, and pressed her
hand as he took his leave.
The next day Estelle learned, through Susan Copsewood, who had obtained
the news from authentic sources, that her parents had gone to
Southampton, whence they would sail in a few days for Italy.
“Another blow! I accept it! Oh, God, I accept it! Only make me patient
to suffer, and strong to act!” was the prayer that went up from her
crushed heart, upon hearing of this desertion.
She opened her Bible to seek for comfort. Did an angel guide her hand,
or did the Lord of heaven and earth—the Father of all, before whom not a
sparrow falleth unmarked—thus speak directly to his stricken child? For
oh, words of life and light! these were they that met her mournful eyes:
“Fear _thou_ not; for _I_ am with thee: be not dismayed; for _I_ am thy
God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; I will uphold thee
with the right hand of my righteousness.”
She dropped the book and closed her eyes, for a flood of blessing had
descended upon her, enveloping and impenetrating her whole being, and
filling her with Divine love, wisdom, and strength.
She needed all—love to teach her patience and forgiveness under unjust
contumely, wisdom to guide her in her dark and dangerous path, strength
to enable her to bear the approaching terrible ordeal.
In a few days intelligence was received that the Judges were within a
few days’ journey of Exeter, and that the Assizes would be opened on the
following Monday.
Good Mr. Oldfield heard this news with much more agitation than was felt
by his charge, who, pale and still, awaited her fate.
The Rector wrote a note and sent it by a special messenger to Lord
Dazzleright, desiring his lordship to come at his earliest possible
convenience and advise with him.
Lord Dazzleright lost no time in complying with the request, and arrived
the next day at the parsonage.
Mr. Oldfield immediately conducted his lordship into his library, which
was the room on the right side of the entrance hall, opposite to his old
wife’s parlor.
When they had reached this apartment, the Rector handed a chair to his
guest, and dropped himself into another, saying:
“The Assizes are at hand.”
“I know it—thank Heaven, the suspense will be over,” replied Lord
Dazzleright, cheerfully.
“But—I took the liberty of sending for your lordship to ask—what am _I_,
as Lady Montressor’s surety, expected to do? Am I to wait here with her
until a tipstaff summons us to appear, or must I take her to Exeter, and
render her up? You see, though I am seventy years of age, I was never in
a criminal court in any capacity in my life, and knew no more of its
forms than a child.”
“I see: of course you are expected, without further notice to bring your
charge into court. But, anticipating this natural embarrassment on your
part, I have brought and left my carriage at the inn, and will call with
it to-morrow to take yourself and Lady Montressor to Exeter—if you will
accept.”
“Oh, with promptitude, and many thanks, my lord.”
“In this case, then, all that you will have to do will be to take seats
in the carriage and leave the rest to myself, as her ladyship’s
counsel.”
“I am very grateful to have my mind thus far relieved, my lord.”
“I shall be at your door to-morrow morning, at ten—if that hour will
suit you.”
“Perfectly, my lord.”
“And now, as I have a world of business on my hands, I must bid you
good-day,” said Lord Dazzleright.
“Good-day, and many thanks, my lord.”
The next morning, at the appointed hour, Lord Dazzleright’s carriage
stood before the vine-shaded garden gate of the parsonage.
It was a dark, gloomy, foreboding day, and sensibly affected the spirits
of all concerned.
Estelle prayed long and earnestly in her chamber, remaining on her
knees, until a gentle rap at the door, and the voice of her faithful
attendant, warned her that her friends were waiting. Then she arose, and
over her simple grey silk dress wrapped a fine grey woolen shawl, put on
a close cottage bonnet of grey crape, threw over it a black lace vail,
took her gloves and her Bible, and followed her maid down stairs.
Mr. Oldfield waited in the hall, and Lord Dazzleright in the carriage,
to receive her.
Lord Dazzleright’s kindness of heart suggested all things needful.
“Where is her ladyship’s woman?” he inquired, after greeting Lady
Montressor, and observing that she was unattended. “Is she not going
with her mistress?”
“Why, nothing has been said of it, my lord; we did not know that it
would be convenient to your lordship to——”
“Is that she? hasten, my good girl, throw on your bonnet, and get in
here beside me—did you not know your lady would require your services?”
said Lord Dazzleright, interrupting the Rector to hurry the maid.
“Yes, my lord, I knew it well enough, only——” the rest of her sentence
was lost in distance, as she hurried around the circular walk toward the
house. She reappeared in five minutes, and took her place in the
carriage.
And Lady Montressor and the Rector occupying the back seat, and Lord
Dazzleright and the maid the front one, they drove rapidly off toward
the Exeter turnpike.
A long, dreary ride, under a dark and weeping sky, and over a landscape
humid with its fallen tears, brought them, at the close of day, into the
city of Exeter, the capital of Devonshire, and the ancient seat of the
West Saxon kings. They drew up, and turned into the court-yard of a
quiet hotel in the neighborhood of the Assizes. There was no registry of
names required there, as in our own “free” country, and therefore no
gaping and staring crowd could identify the pale, beautiful woman, who
came attended by a clergyman and an attorney, as the high-born lady,
whose approaching trial for a grave offense, occupied all thoughts, and
attracted crowds to the city; and no officious reporters could publish
the fact that—“Lady Montressor occupied apartments at the ‘Crown and
Sceptre.’” The next day was the Sabbath, during which Estelle, escorted
by Mr. Oldfield, twice attended Divine service in public, without
attracting attention. She passed the evening in her chamber, in prayer
and self-communion, to be ready to meet the morrow and the opening of
the Assizes.