THE ARRAIGNMENT.
“She stood before the crowded court,
Forlorn—but oh! how fair!
Though many a beauty graced the hall,
To me, the loveliest there.
Ah! how I wished some angel then
His pitying wing would spread,
To shelter from the scorn of men
That fair, defenseless head.”—_Mrs. Thorne Holmes._
On entering the thronged room, a group to the left of the door, forced
itself upon Lord Montressor’s notice. It consisted of Victoire L’Orient,
the little old French woman and the Abbe. The woman recognized Estelle,
and pressed forward exclaiming vindictively:
“Ah, good! So that you madame—verily! Your most obedient, madame,” etc.
etc. Until, at length, without looking at her, Lord Montressor just put
out his arm and brushed the troublesome reptile from his lady’s path,
and led her on to the same secluded seat she had daily occupied since
her attendance at court. They had not been seated more than five
minutes, before they were joined by Lord Dazzleright, who came hurriedly
to announce that there would be no more delay than was necessary to
arrange preliminaries, and that his client would be almost immediately
placed at the bar. And then he hastened away again to attend to some
business connected with the approaching trial.
Estelle closed her eyes and sank back in her chair. It had come, then,
it had surely come. At the same bar at which within a fortnight past she
had seen so many stand to answer to the charge of guilt, and from which
she had seen so many sent to exile, to imprisonment, or to death, she
also must stand to answer to the charge of crime, for which, should she
be convicted, she also, even _she_ the delicate, sensitive, refined
child of wealth, luxury and high rank would be sentenced—here again the
haunting vision of the convict transport-packet, and the penal colony,
with their brutalized or demonized crew, and all their loathsome and
revolting horrors, swam darkly in upon her brain.
“My God! my God! have mercy and let me die,” escaped in stifled tones
from her ashy lips.
“Estelle! my Estelle! be calm, be strong, be hopeful! See they are about
to call you. Call thou on Him who once stood, as you are now about to
stand, before man’s uncertain tribunal, to be judged by man’s often
erring wisdom. Call thou on Him!” said Lord Montressor, earnestly as he
arose, took her hand, drew her arm within his own, and attended by Mr.
Oldfield, and followed by the eyes of all the people that thronged to
suffocation the court-room, led her up to the bar, set a chair, seated
her there, and placed himself beside her. The aged minister stood on the
other side; he stooped and whispered:
“When you rise, my child, do not wait for the order of the court, but
unvail at once; the innocent need not conceal her brow of truth.”
The indictment was then read, and the accused was ordered to rise and
hold up her hand.
Estelle arose, and Lord Montressor reverentially drew aside her vail,
revealing her pale, despairing, but most beautiful face. The crowd was
behind her. Thus fortunately she had only to confront the bench. The
Judge bent forward and looked with interest into the grief-stricken, but
lovely countenance thus unvailed before him. Under his scrutiny, her
eyes sank to the floor, and her color rose, crimsoning her cheek even to
her temples, and then receding left her paler than before. All this
passed in an instant And then—
“Prisoner, you have heard the indictment against you read. Are you
guilty or not guilty of the crime laid to your charge?” asked the judge.
“Not guilty in intention, my lord,” answered the low, thrilling voice of
the accused.
“You may resume your seat.”
Lord Montressor, with a deferential tenderness that never failed or
faltered, handed her back to her chair, and took his stand on her right
hand as before.
And so perfect was the silence among the eager, attentive crowd, that
not only the questions of the Judge, but every syllable of her low-toned
reply was distinctly heard in every part of the court-room.
The multitude had now pressed as near as was permitted to the bench, and
many on either side were in a line of vision with the accused. And among
them were many of her old associates, now gazing at her in pitiless
curiosity. Fain would she have intervened the friendly black lace vail
again between her face and the eyes of the assembly, though in respect
to her friends’ opinions she abstained from the self indulgence; but oh!
those eyes! those cruel eyes! she felt them like a forest of leveled
bayonets, pointed toward her—impaling her.
The counsel for the Crown arose, and amid the profound silence of the
court, opened the prosecution. I cannot in my limited space give a just
idea of the logic, eloquence and power of this preliminary speech.
It became his painful duty, he said, to prosecute one of the most
extraordinary cases that the annals of English crime had ever recorded
before an English tribunal. The prisoner at the bar was known—either
personally, or by fame, to most persons there present. She had been a
lady by birth, wealth and education, holding position among the highest
in the realm; a lady distinguished for rank and fortune, celebrated for
her exceeding beauty and accomplished genius; _such she had been_. Now,
alas! she was no less distinguished for her discovered depravity, daring
and duplicity! They knew that she had been successful in fashionable,
aristocratic, and even in royal circles; he would now show that she had,
until recently, been equally successful in her course of concealed
guilt. He would give a synopsis of her career, stating facts that he
should prove by competent witnesses present in this court. He should
commence with her school life, showing the gentlemen of the jury the
precocious depravity with which at the early age of fourteen she had
deceived her fond, indulgent parents, deluded her excellent teacher, and
ensnared a young gentleman into a secret marriage, soon as lightly
broken as it had been made; the wantonness with which she had abandoned
her youthful bridegroom, driving him to despair and desperation, that
soon ended in the wreck of his fortune and character; the duplicity with
which through ten long years she had concealed the fact of her first
marriage from her parents and friends; and the wickedness with which she
had, just one month since, entrapped the heart and hand of a noble lord
here present, and who was the second victim of this modern Messalina!
At this degrading peroration, the blood rushed to Lord Montressor’s
brow—he started forward with a flashing eye and a raised hand—but, then
recollecting himself and his surroundings, he made a powerful effort,
controlled himself, and with the air of a man who bides his time,
retreated to his stand.
Estelle, a novice to the forms and usages of courts of law, heard all
the enormous charges, the atrocious wickedness officially imputed to her
by the prosecutor, and sat, with pallid features and fixed stare, like a
woman appalled to marble.
Lord Dazzleright stooped and spoke to her.
“You should know, Lady Montressor, that this is merely an _official_
tirade, a professional affair—it means nothing, makes no impression. The
Judge don’t believe him, the jury don’t believe him, he don’t believe
himself. He is only repeating the prosecutor’s usual raw-head and bloody
bones formula of—
‘Fe, faw, fum—I smell the blood of an Englishman.’
No more than just that.”
But Estelle did not understand nor hear, nor ever once withdraw her
stony gaze, that seemed caught up and spell-bound to the face of her
terrible accuser. At length, however, the dreadful voice ceased to
declaim, and gave the counsel for the defense an opportunity of
answering. But as Lord Dazzleright declined replying for the present,
reserving his defense, the prosecutor proceeded to call the witnesses
for the crown.
It would be tedious to recapitulate the testimony, which the reader has
already heard given at the investigation before the magistrate. The same
witnesses, namely: Madame Gabrielle L’Orient and the Abbe Pierre Le
Roux, were successively called, and testified to the same fact, to wit,
that of the marriage that had been performed between Victoire L’Orient
and Estelle Morelle at the church of St. Etienne, Paris, on the
thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and ——. They also
identified the prisoner at the bar and Victoire L’Orient as the
contracting parties in that ceremony. These witnesses were in turn
subjected to a severe cross-examination by Lord Dazzleright, but without
effect. The duplicity and cunning of the little old Frenchwoman was at
least a match for the legal acumen of the best lawyer in the three
kingdoms. A host of witnesses were present, ready to testify to the
well-known fact of the so called “felonious” marriage rites that had
been celebrated on the first day of May last, at the parish church of
Hyde, in the county of Devon, between Estelle, wife of Victoire
L’Orient, and George Charles, Lord Viscount Montressor. But a few of
these were needed to establish this point. And here the prosecuting
attorney rested his case. Lord Dazzleright arose for the defense.
All eyes were turned upon him—he was a man of distinguished presence, as
well as of brilliant genius. Amid the deepest silence and the
profoundest attention, he commenced his speech.
“My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury:—The charge made against my client
by the learned counsel for the crown,—imposing as it seems, and
sustained as it is by competent witnesses,—is really so unsubstantial,
as to be easily overthrown, by reference to a single fact,—as it is no
doubt _already_ invalided in the estimation of your lordship, of the
jury, and of all within the sound of my voice, by the simple
_recollection_ of that fact;—to wit: that the statute laws of France as
well as those of England, regard a minor of fourteen years of age as an
_infant_ in the law, and incapable of contracting marriage without the
knowledge and consent of his or her parents or guardians. Therefore, the
quasi marriage ceremony celebrated between the man Victoire L’Orient and
the infant Estelle Morelle, in the Catholic chapel of St. Etienne,
Paris, on the thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and —— _was_,
and _is_, completely invalid and of none effect, and could therefore
form no obstacle to the nuptials solemnized between Estelle Morelle and
the Lord Viscount Montressor at the parish church of Hyde on the first
of May ultimo. This fact is so well understood by all here present, that
I need not dwell upon the point any longer than to remind your lordship
and the jury that this _is, of itself_, all sufficient for the _legal_
acquittal of my client.
“But, my lord and gentlemen, I wish to be understood as standing here,
_not only_ in the character of an advocate of a client,—whom I consider
as having been presented and indicted upon untenable grounds, and whom I
feel assured stands already fully acquitted before you, _but also_ as
the champion of a deeply-injured and most unhappy, though most estimable
lady, whose high moral and intellectual excellencies can only be equaled
in degree by her cruel wrongs and great sufferings,—a lady whose hand
and fortune, while yet she was an infant, became the objects of a foul
conspiracy, and whose fair name is now the target of the sharpest arrows
of calumny. My lord and gentlemen, the proved invalidity of that first
quasi marriage suffices to clear my client before the _court_. It is,
therefore, to acquit her before the _tribunal of public opinion_, that I
stand here and proceed to make a statement of facts, every one which I
pledge myself to establish by witnesses of unquestionable probity.”
Here the learned advocate commenced and gave in detail the sorrowful
history of Estelle’s school life as it is already known to the reader.
His earnestness, his eloquence and graphic delineation of the wrongs and
sufferings of the beautiful woman who sat there waiting her doom, in
death-like stillness,—in turn flushed every cheek with indignation, or
filled every eye with tears. In the course of his speech he said—in
answer to the false and totally unfounded assumptions of the prosecuting
attorney, and to silence forever those who from any cause might be
disposed to cavil,—he should state and prove, that, illegal as was that
quasi marriage, it had been entered upon in perfectly good faith by his
client. She supposed it valid and binding; infant as she was, she
believed herself a wife. And most wretched as that false marriage
proved, and deeply repented as it was, _she_ had remained, in every
respect scrupulously faithful to its supposed obligations. Yes, faithful
not only for the ten months that she lived and suffered under the cruel
despotism of her _soi disant_ husband, but after that,—when the penal
laws of France had sent him a convict to Algiers, for the ten years of
separation, and the two years of supposed widowhood. She had borne her
burden _alone_, until in due course of time her betrothal to a certain
noble peer, here present, made it right and proper that she should
confide to him the fact of the previous union, then supposed to be
broken by death.
I have thus given but a skeleton of Lord Dazzleright’s address—would I
could infuse into it the fullness, force, and vitality of the original.
He finished amid a breathless silence, and proceeded to call his
witnesses. They were not many, but had been selected with the greatest
care. The advocate had been very busy during the interval of the past
month, and had spared neither time, labor, nor expense, in collecting
and consolidating testimony. He had drawn from his client’s native
county, witnesses of the very highest standing, to give testimony upon
the exemplary piety of her life and manners, and he had dispatched a
confidential agent to the Chief of Police at Paris, to procure his
assistance in hunting up the employees who had been in the service of
Madame L’Orient, at the time of the disgraceful breaking up of her
“Pensionat,” and in selecting such as were most competent to give
evidence in this case. These were now in court, and were successively
called to the stand. Their united testimony harmonized perfectly, and
corroborated the statements of the advocate. They were in turn severely
cross-examined by the king’s counsel; but the more their testimony was
tried, the stronger it was proved. The advocate here rested the defense.
The Judge then arose to review the case, sum up the evidence, and charge
the jury.
His lordship’s exposition of the law and the testimony, in his
instructions, might be considered a virtual acquittal of the prisoner.
It was like the usual charges of Sir James Allan Parke—short, clear, and
pointed.
“Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the charge upon which the
prisoner at the bar stands arraigned, and which has been clearly set
forth by the counsel for the crown, and well sustained by the witnesses
he has produced. You have also heard how that charge has been met and
answered by the counsel for the prisoner. The fact of two marriages
having taken place under the circumstances set forth, is fully
established by testimony. The learned advocate for the accused rests his
defense upon the alleged invalidity of the first marriage. Now, upon the
validity or invalidity of that marriage, this court has no authority to
pronounce judgment, the adjudication of such matters belongs,
exclusively, to the Spiritual Court of Arches. If the first marriage was
invalid, it would form no obstacle to the second marriage, which in such
case would not be illegal. And if, on the other hand, the first marriage
was perfectly valid, the second marriage would be illegal; but not
necessarily _felonious_. Intention is the soul of crime. From the
evidence before you, if you find that the prisoner at the bar, upon the
occasion of solemnizing marriage with Lord Montressor, knew, or had good
and sufficient cause to believe that she had already a husband living—it
will be your duty to convict her. If, on the other hand, you find that
she knew, or had good and sufficient reason to believe herself legally
free to contract the said marriage, it becomes your duty to acquit her.
To this single point is drawn the question. You are to judge upon it,
and render your verdict accordingly.”
The Judge ceased and resumed his seat.
The jury retired under the conduct of the sheriff’s officer, to another
room to deliberate.
Then the spell of breathless silence that had bound the spectators was
dissolved. They breathed and spoke—a buzz of voices filled the room.
As for Estelle, she changed not from the frozen, stony look into which
she had been at first appalled by the official abuse of the crown’s
counsel.
Lord Montressor stooped and whispered to her,—
“My own Estelle, courage! courage for a few moments longer! and then all
will be over; all will be well! You are already more than acquitted, you
are justified, you are vindicated.”
“Oh, I know, I know all!” replied a sepulchral voice, that Lord
Montressor scarcely recognized as belonging to his silver-tongued
Estelle.
In a moment, silence fell again like death upon the court-room. It was
produced by the opening of a door, and the appearance of the bailiff,
ushering in the jury. They advanced to their place. The foreman stood
before the Judge. Not a breath was drawn, scarcely a pulse beat in that
crowded court-room for the space of a minute, during which the Judge
inquired:
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?”
“We have, my lord,” answered the foreman.
“What say you, then, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”
“NOT GUILTY, my lord.”
“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” said the Judge.
A low deep murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. The old
minister seized the hand of his protege, and burst into tears of joy.
Lord Montressor grasped that of Lord Dazzleright in warm acknowledgment
of his services, and congratulation of his success, and then instantly
turned to his bride.
His attention was too late—she had fainted on the arm of the old
clergyman—she who had firmly borne up under the horrors of the past
month, had now succumbed and sunk, and lay like a statue fallen from its
pedestal.
“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” repeated the clerk of the
court, somewhat impatiently.
She looked indeed as though she were discharged not only from the court,
but from the earth—so still, so white, so lifeless!
“Raise her in your arms, Montressor: take her into the sheriff’s room. I
will show you the way,” said Lord Dazzleright, bending anxiously over
her fainting form.
At this moment, also, Susan Copsewood, her maid, who had been somewhere
among the spectators, succeeded in pushing her way through the crowd,
and reaching the side of her mistress.
Lord Montressor raised Estelle with care, and, preceded by Lord
Dazzleright, bore her from the court-room into the sheriff’s office,
where he laid her on the sofa, dropped upon one knee by her side, and
began to rub and chafe her hands, and invoke her by every fond epithet
and hopeful word to awake—arise! Such restoratives as could be first
procured were brought and applied, and with such good effect that, after
a little while, a shudder passed through her frame, her breast heaved,
her face quivered—she sighed, and opened her eyes. Her glance met the
anxious, earnest gaze of Lord Montressor bent upon her. She sighed
again, and dropped her eyelids.
“Stella! my Stella! my bride! my wife! rouse yourself, dearest! You are
acquitted, you are justified,” said Lord Montressor, anxiously seeking
to restore her. “You are vindicated—you are free!”
“Free! free! oh God!” she cried, so despairingly, so incoherently, with a
countenance so blanched and convulsed with anguish, that her friends
drew near and gazed upon her in as much astonishment as alarm.
“Compose yourself, sweet Stella,” murmured Lord Montressor, sitting down
beside her, and gently smoothing away the beautiful, dishevelled black
ringlets from her cold and clammy forehead. “Sweet love, be calm.”
“I will, I am,” she said, trying to control the motions of her quivering
and ashen lips. Then gently putting aside his caressing hand, and rising
upon her elbow, she inquired:
“But tell me, you, why was I acquitted, while all the other prisoners,
who had been arraigned before me, were convicted? Did my father’s, my
friends’, and my——Lord Montressor’s rank and wealth, and power, thrown
into the scales of justice, tilt the balance in my favor? Had I only
this advantage over other wretches?” she asked, fixing her dark eyes,
querulous with suffering, upon the distressed face of the old clergyman.
“No, no, my child! This was not so. This would not have been so, of
course. English law is no respecter of persons, and English courts are
as incorruptible by wealth as they are undismayed by power. You owe your
acquittal solely to your guiltlessness.”
“What!” she cried, fixing her wild, dilated eyes upon the old man’s
face, “was it not _true_, then?”
“Was not _what_ true, my child?”
“That which the king’s counsel said of me?”
“Assuredly not! The king’s counsel himself did not believe the words
that he spoke—his speech was a mere official form. Compose yourself, my
child.”
“Oh, I will do so. I am composed; but hist!” she said, sinking her voice
to a whisper: “did they make me out to be my lord’s wife?”
“Assuredly, my child, and you are in strict law the wife of Lord
Montressor; though the Judge of the Assizes, as well as he knew that
fact, had no authority to pronounce upon it.”
“Oh God! my God!” she cried, wringing her hands.
“Be calm, my child; do not let that omission distress you, for though
the Judge had no authority to give judgment upon an affair that belonged
exclusively to the ecclesiastic courts, yet neither was his judgment
needed. We all know now, as we knew before, that you are really and
truly the wife of Lord Montressor. Have we not, ever since your
marriage, addressed you only by his name?”
“Lord! my Lord!” she cried, still twisting and wringing her white
fingers.
“Why, Estelle, my child, what ails you? Have you borne up through all
the trial to sink at last in the hour of your triumph?”
“Triumph, was it? Oh! Lord in heaven! Lord of pity!”
“Estelle! Estelle!”
“You said that I was truly the wife of Lord Montressor?”
“Undoubtedly, my child!”
“Then it was the wife of Lord Montressor who was this day tried
for——Saints in heaven! I cannot name the charge!” She groaned, with the
sweat of agony bursting from her icy brow.
“Estelle,” said Lord Montressor, now seating himself by her side and
taking her hand—“you are ill—nervous. This is nothing new, nothing that
we have not known for a month past, why then should it distress you?”
“Ah, my lord! but it is! for I did not mind what they out of pity called
me! I called my lost self Estelle L’Orient! I thought it was Estelle
L’Orient who was to be tried upon that degrading charge! And had it been
Estelle L’Orient, it had not signified! But that the wife of the
Viscount Montressor should suffer this degradation—oh! angels in heaven!
it is terrible!—it is terrible!”
“Estelle, you rave! pray try, for our sakes, to control yourself, love!”
“But they spoke falsely—falsely! It _was_ Estelle L’Orient who was tried
for——what I cannot speak! It was _Estelle L’Orient_, and no other!
_Your_ honorable name, my lord, was never dragged down through such
mire!—it remains clear of blame!—none bearing it ever came to shame!”
“Assuredly not! and none have borne it more blamelessly than my beloved
Stella; but, dear one, you talk so wildly that you had best not speak at
all—come! drink this, and then lie down and be quiet for a few minutes,”
he said, placing to her lips a glass of ice-water that had just been
brought in by her maid. She quaffed it, but instead of lying down, she
straightened her figure up, put up her hands and pushed the
overshadowing black ringlets from her brow, and said:
“Yes—I will—I must control myself. There! I am calmer now. Am I not, my
friends?”
“Yes—the water has done you good. You are better, but you must rest a
little while.”
“No—let us leave this place—I shall recover sooner without its walls.”
“As you please, then, love! Let your maid rearrange your dress. Our
traveling carriage waits, and the afternoon wanes; yet before the moon
rises over the hills of Dorset, I would welcome you to your new
home—Montressor Castle,” said his lordship, affectionately busying
himself in tying her little bonnet, and tucking in her stray ringlets.
“Ah! _would you_?—would you take Estelle to your ancestral home, where
never a dishonored woman trod before?”
“Estelle! you almost anger me, love! do not talk so insanely!” said his
lordship. But she had dropped her hands idly upon her lap, and with her
gaze fastened abstractedly upon them, had fallen into a deep reverie
that lasted several minutes, and might have lasted indefinitely longer,
had not Lord Montressor gently recalled her attention to the necessity
of departure. She started like one aroused from sleep—passed her hand
once or twice across her brow, and then answered in a voice, strange and
unnatural from its level monotone:
“Lord Montressor, will you please to excuse me for to-night? I am not
equal to the journey you propose.”
“My dearest, the distance is but nine miles over the loveliest of roads,
and in the easiest of carriages,” replied his lordship, encouragingly.
“No doubt, no doubt; yet I cannot take the road to-day.”
“Very well! As you please, dearest! I will then convey you to the ‘Royal
Adelaide,’ the best and quietest little hotel in Exeter, where we can
remain until you are thoroughly rested and restored. Will that plan suit
my Stella?”
“You exhibit an angel’s goodness to me, my lord, and I must tax it still
further! Listen! and pray do not misconceive me! I am not ungrateful;
but—the scenes of the last month have so severely tried me—that even
now, when I am acquitted, I cannot pass from the contemplation of the
horrors that filled my mind and threatened my future, at once to the
enjoyment of the security of your protection, and the blessedness of
your love! I need a short interval of solitude, isolation,
self-communion and prayer, before I dare enter the Eden you open to me!
Suffer me, therefore, my dearest lord, to return, as heretofore, under
the charge of our reverend friend to my apartment at the ‘Crown and
Sceptre.’”
“And then?”
“We shall meet again.”
“To-morrow?”
“You may come and inquire for me, to-morrow noon.”
“Estelle! do you really feel this interval to be necessary to your
convenience?”
“It is vitally necessary to my _peace_ and _sanity_, I think, my lord.”
“Be it so, then! I cannot object, nor will I reproach you, my Stella,
cruel as I feel this delay to be. Shall I attend you to your hotel?”
“If you will not think me ungrateful, I prefer that you should take
leave of me, as heretofore, at my carriage door.”
“Well! I will obey my lady’s behests, however unacceptable they may be,
and that without cavilling,” said his lordship. “But I may come to you
to-morrow, you said?”
“Come to-morrow, my lord.”
Estelle expressed herself now ready to depart. Mr. Oldfield arose and
gave her his arm. Lord Montressor walked by her side, and attended her
into the street and to the carriage.
“Farewell, until we meet, dear Stella,” he said, as he placed her in the
carriage.
“Aye! until we meet! Farewell, my lord,” she answered solemnly—how
solemnly he afterward remembered—lifting her eyes to his countenance
with a momentary, deep, earnest, thrilling gaze, as though she would
make and receive an impression that should last through life!
Lord Montressor lifted her hand to his lips, bowed, and retired to give
place to Mr. Oldfield, who entered the carriage, took the seat beside
Estelle, and gave orders to the coachman to drive on.
The streets were still thronged with people, waiting for that carriage
to pass, in hope of getting a sight of one whose name, for praise or
blame, was now on every tongue.
“An honorable acquittal is assuredly the next worst thing to a
conviction!” thought Mr. Oldfield, as he nervously let down the inner
curtains to screen his companion from the vulgar gaze.
They finally reached their inn, the neighborhood of which was peopled by
an expectant crowd, waiting to see their arrival.
Mr. Oldfield wrapped her vail closely around the head of his charge,
handed her out of the carriage, and led her quickly into the house, and
up to their private parlor. As soon as they had reached this apartment,
Estelle turned to her venerable friend, and said in a low voice:
“Mr. Oldfield, send the servants away; I wish to have a private
conversation with you immediately.”
The good clergyman complied. When they were alone, she threw back her
vail, and said in an earnest, solemn voice:
“Mr. Oldfield! you are a Christian minister! help me to do my duty!”
“Your _duty_, Lady Montressor?” repeated the clergyman, in a perplexed,
misgiving, and questioning tone.
“Aye, my duty! my difficult—my dreadful duty!”
“I confess I do not understand you, Lady Montressor!”
“I will explain! I must withdraw myself at once and forever from Lord
Montressor’s neighborhood and knowledge!”
“My child, you are certainly mad!”
“Would I were!—but no! listen! That first marriage of mine may not have
been a _legal_ obstacle; but it is, nevertheless, an insurmountable
_moral_ obstacle to my union with any other man! And oh! amid all the
gloom, and terror, and desolation of my life, I do rejoice and thank God
for one signal blessing! that I was arrested immediately, on leaving the
church, so that I lived not one moment as a wife with Lord Montressor!
and not one moment must I so live with him! I must fly while there is
yet time!”
“My child, my dear Estelle, you distress me beyond measure by this rash
resolution.”
“It is not a sudden determination! Ah no! A month ago, as soon as I
recovered from the shock of my arrest and collected my scattered
faculties together, I thought of it, pondered over it, prayed over it,
and _decided_ upon it—long before the court had rendered judgment upon
it. Had I been convicted, that conviction would have virtually released
Lord Montressor. But I am acquitted, and I must by my own act release
him. I ask you as a Christian minister to assist me in this duty.”
“But, I am very much perplexed! You are certainly in _law_ the wife of
Lord Montressor.
“But not in right.”
“How do you propose to release him?”
“By leaving the country; he will then in time forget me.”
“He never can!”
“He must and will.”
“And then——?”
“An act of Parliament will release him from the bond of a merely nominal
marriage.”
The aged pastor did not reply, but sank into painful thought, broken by
occasional groans.
At length, Estelle resumed—
“You have heard my plan—will you assist me in it?”
“No, Lady Montressor, I dare not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I doubt it would be wrong to do so. It would be treachery on my
part toward Lord Montressor, whose legal wife you are!”
“Oh! would to God I were indeed his rightful wife! Oh! would to God I
were! But that I am not so—that I cannot be so, while Victoire L’Orient
lives, you, a Christian minister, should know full well!” cried Estelle,
passionately.
“Lady Montressor, I consider your conscience morbid upon this subject.
Monsieur Victoire L’Orient has not the shadow of a claim to your hand.
You never were his wife!” said the minister solemnly.
Estelle grew paler than ever she had been before, and fixing her eyes
steadily upon the face of her venerable friend, she slowly inquired—
“And if, as you say, I never was the wife of Victoire L’Orient—_what
then was I to him_?”
“The good old pastor winced and fidgetted, but at last replied—
“His innocent victim!”
“‘His innocent victim!’ And think you, then, that this ‘victim’ of
Monsieur Victoire L’Orient is a fit and proper consort for the Right
Honorable, the Viscount Montressor?”
“Madam, his lordship thinks so.”
Slowly and sadly Estelle shook her head—
“No, Mr. Oldfield! he is a moral hero—and he loves the poor woman before
you. He would risk name, rank, and social influence—every thing, save
true honor, to rescue her from the slough of despond into which she has
fallen. He would be the Curtius to throw himself into the yawning abyss
opened in my life.”
“Lady Montressor, you are wrong upon this subject! You accuse yourself
too bitterly. Reflect! your sole error in this affair was a thoughtless
disregard of your filial relations. Even that fault, I am constrained to
say, was very much palliated by the circumstances in which you were
placed—from earliest infancy under the sole charge and absolute rule of
an artful and unscrupulous woman. You were the victim, I repeat, of a
pair of accomplished villains—mother and son. As far as your part in
that _quasi_ marriage went, you acted in good faith, you believed the
proceeding to be a lawful one. If that marriage was illegal and has been
vacated, you are not to be blamed; the fault was not yours. History and
biography record many cases in which, under like circumstances, the
marriage even of kings and queens have been dissolved, or rather
pronounced invalid from the beginning, and the parties have been left
free to contract second matrimonial engagements. Lord Montressor, I am
sure, takes this view of the subject.”
Again and more mournfully Estelle shook her head.
“Ah, Mr. Oldfield! My lord thinks only of me—but I—I think of _him_, and
of what he will have to bear for my sake!” Then breaking into passionate
sorrow, she exclaimed—“Once, and long before he ever had the misfortune
to look upon this fatal face of mine—wherever he appeared, his presence
spread a certain festive gladness, like the coming of a hero or the
shining of the sun! ‘That is LORD MONTRESSOR,’ would cry one exulting
voice! ‘Where?’ would question a dozen eager tones and glances! ‘There!
there! that tall man, with the kingly brow and saintly smile! That is
he! you cannot mistake him!’ would reply those who knew his person. For
every one knew his _name_. And _then_ all eyes turned upon him in
admiration and worship!—But _now!_ but _now!_ how different, oh my God!
Listen what he may have to bear and I may have to hear! We go into
public—into church, festive hall or mart,—it does not matter which!—some
busybody, who knows his face whispers ‘That is Lord Montressor.’ ‘What!
he who married that woman who was tried before the Assizes?’ asks one.
‘What! he who took away another man’s bride?’ inquires another. (For so
many will view it! So soon are good deeds forgotten, so little it
requires to distort facts, and take away an honorable man’s good name.)
But no! no! no! no! they shall not have this thing to say of my lord!—of
my dear, dear and honored lord! whose name shall shine unclouded among
the stars!—for whose good and happiness I would willingly become——what
would I _not_ become? The dust of the earth that all men trample—if that
could raise _him_ higher, or make him happier! I will go away, far away,
he shall not know whither! He shall never hear of me again! I shall be
dead to him! An act of Parliament will set him free from the bond of our
nominal union. Then the most that the bitterest caviller can say, will
be—‘That is Lord Montressor who married Miss Morelle, that was tried at
Exeter! Happily he divorced her, before the marriage was consummated.’
In time the caviller will forget to say even so much; as in time Lord
Montressor will also forget his lost Estelle, and be happy!”
“Happy? he! Lord Montressor! My child, from my own observations of the
past month, I feel assured that Lord Montressor will never find
happiness in forgetfulness of you!”
“He must and shall! I will, in my retirement, besiege Heaven with
prayers for his peace! Did ever a woman wear out her days and nights
with prayers that the husband whom she loves, may cease to love and may
forget her? So will I pray, and so shall my lord find peace! But we lose
precious time! Say! will you aid me to leave this place secretly?”
“Assuredly not, Lady Montressor.”
“And is this your ultimatum?”
“Absolutely, Lady Montressor.”
“Mr. Oldfield! are you then a Christian minister, or are you only the
incumbent of Bloomingdale?” asked the lady, in sorrowful bitterness of
spirit.
“I humbly trust that I am a Christian minister; but not therefore a
fanatic, Lady Montressor.”
“And do you think it a Christian act to refuse to aid me in my
conscientious withdrawal from Lord Montressor?”
“I take the part of law and order, my lady, and such I think the duty of
every Christian.”
“And I—take the part of God and—war, if need be—choose martyrdom if need
be! Good-night, _most Christian minister_!” said Lady Montressor, rising
to leave the room.
“Good-night, my child. You are sarcastic; but I do not deserve it. You
will sleep on this; and to-morrow you will think better of it and me.
God bless and comfort you, my child. Good-night,” said the old man, very
mildly.
Estelle smiled mournfully, ironically, as she passed to the door; but
while her hand rested upon the lock, her heart relented—repented—she
turned back, went to the side of her venerable friend, took his aged
hand, and said—
“Forgive my unkind words. Trouble makes me irritable and unjust—yes! and
ungrateful! For you have been very good to me; when my father and my
mother forsook me, _you_ took me up; when I stood arraigned upon a
criminal and degrading charge, _you_ stood at my side, sustaining me. Do
you think that I can ever forget, or be thankless to you? Oh, never! no!
God bless and preserve you! God love you and reward you! Good-night!
_Good-night!_” she cried, and pressed his hand fervently to her heart
and lips—then dropped it, turned, and hurried from the room.
The good clergyman never looked upon her living face again.