THE FORSAKEN.
“Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another’s woe:
“Still thy heart its life retaineth—
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet.
“Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow
Bends to thee—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now.”—_Byron._
Lord Montressor arose early next morning, and devoted the whole forenoon
to engaging a pleasant suite of rooms at the “Royal Adelaide,” and in
superintending their arrangement for the reception of his bride. The
apartments were quite ready by eleven o’clock.
And a few minutes before twelve, Lord Montressor entered his carriage,
and drove to the “Crown and Sceptre,” to keep his appointment with
Estelle.
He inquired for Lady Montressor, and was shown up at once into her
private parlor, while the waiter took his card up to her ladyship’s
chamber. He waited impatiently for a few moments until the servant
returned, with the information that neither Lady Montressor nor her
woman was in her ladyship’s room.
“That is strange,” thought Lord Montressor. “Take this card up to Mr.
Oldfield, and let him know that I would be happy to see him in this
room,” he said, handing the “pasteboard” to the waiter. The man received
it and disappeared.
There was no suspicion nor misgiving in the impatience with which Lord
Montressor waited for the appearance of Mr. Oldfield. He simply thought
it unusual that Lady Montressor should not be ready to receive him, and
wished to inquire for her of the minister. Presently the door opened,
and Mr. Oldfield entered.
“Ah! how do you do, my dear friend? I hope Lady Montressor is well this
morning?” said his lordship, advancing to meet the pastor.
“I hope so too, but Lady Montressor has not made her appearance to-day,”
said Mr. Oldfield.
“Indeed! and it is now,” said his lordship, consulting the mantle clock,
“half-past twelve.”
“Her ladyship sometimes breakfasts and spends her mornings in her
chamber, and as she was very much fatigued last night, probably she
prefers to keep her own room to-day. Sit down, my lord! sit down! do not
stand,” said the minister, handing a chair to his visitor and seating
himself.
“But, my dear sir, I sent up my card, and neither Lady Montressor nor
her attendant is in her ladyship’s apartment. I had hoped that my lady
was with you.”
“No, sir; no, no; I have seen neither Lady Montressor nor her maid this
morning,” said Mr. Oldfield, beginning to feel a vague uneasiness.
“This is a little unusual, is it not?” inquired his lordship.
“Eh?—yes! it _is_, my lord! _Very_ unusual! I—think I will go up and see
if—any thing is the matter!” gasped the old man in a great accession of
uneasiness, as he hurriedly left the room to go in search of his charge.
Lord Montressor, being left alone, paced up and down the parlor floor
until he was startled by the violent throwing open of the door, and the
impetuous entrance of Mr. Oldfield, who pale and agitated held out two
letters—one sealed, the other open and fluttering in his hand.
“What! what is the matter? Estelle! my Estelle! Is she ill? Has any
thing happened to her? In the name of Heaven speak, Mr. Oldfield! What
of my Estelle?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, stricken with a panic of
anxiety.
“Gone! my lord! She is gone!”
“GONE!”
“Gone! Fled!”
“FLED!”
“Fled, my lord! Fled alone!”
“In the name of Heaven, my friend, what mean you?”
“Oh! sir! read and see!” exclaimed the old man, thrusting the two
letters into the hands of his companion, and sinking into a chair, and
wiping the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead.
Lord Montressor seized the billets, and naturally read the open one
first. It was addressed to Mr. Oldfield, and was as follows:
“DEAR AND HONORED FRIEND:—Duty constrains me to depart. And though
your heart so pleads for the temporal happiness of your ‘child,’ as
almost now to drown the voice of conscience, yet on calm,
dispassionate reflection, you will see that it is so. Farewell! Be
Heaven as kind to you, as you have been to the poor
ESTELLE.”
With a heavy groan, Lord Montressor threw this note aside, and tore open
and devoured the contents of the other, which was addressed to himself.
It was written as coolly as she in her self-denial had ordained it to
be:
“MY LORD:—Conscience compels me to withdraw from you. Only to avoid
hindrance I go secretly. An Act of Parliament will free you from the
bond of our merely nominal marriage. Farewell, my Lord! May you be
happy with a happier woman than the lost
ESTELLE.”
“What does all this mean? When did she go? Where has she gone? _How_ has
she gone? What friends has she? What means? Answer, in the name of
Heaven, sir, if you can!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in extreme
agitation.
“Ah, my lord, I do not know. I cannot tell. How should I? Except—yes!
give me time!” cried the old man, wiping the beaded drops from his
forehead, and struggling to regain composure.
“Well, sir? Well?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, impatiently.
“Yes! Well, when did she go, you ask? Stay! let me collect myself and
think—yes, she certainly last night spoke of going,” said the old man
somewhat incoherently.
“Last night she spoke of going, and you did not warn me? Oh, Mr.
Oldfield!” exclaimed his lordship, reproachfully.
“My lord, she only _spoke_ of going, and invoked my assistance. I
refused to aid her, and endeavored to persuade her from her purpose. Had
I suspected she was about to depart, I should at once have summoned your
lordship. But who could have foreseen that she would have left us in
this sudden manner?”
“She spoke last night of going! Inform me, sir, if you please, and as
nearly as you can recollect, _all_ that passed last night upon that
subject.”
“I will endeavor to comply, my lord,” said the clergyman, who then
commenced and related the conversation that had taken place between
himself and Lady Montressor in that parlor on the evening previous.
Lord Montressor groaned aloud.
“Sir, did she drop no hint as to _whither_ she intended to go?”
“Not a word, not a breath, my lord!”
“Unhappy girl! Oh Estelle! Estelle! whom I would have gathered into my
bosom, safe from all the storms of life! where are you now? Oh! Estelle,
Estelle!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. In another moment
he started up.
“We waste time, Mr. Oldfield. Show me into her room. Perhaps there, some
clue may be found to her flight.”
With a deep sigh the aged minister nodded assent, and preceded his
friend up the stairs, and into the deserted chamber lately occupied by
Lady Montressor.
Lord Montressor, who had by this time recovered his presence of mind,
calmly and collectedly went about the business of investigation.
“The bed has not been occupied; she did not therefore sleep here. But
the couch is pressed; she must have laid down to rest. Let me see: here
are the sperm candles, half burned down; she must have passed some hours
of the night here. Her trunks are here; therefore she must have
preferred to go out very quietly, and without calling assistance,” he
said, going about the room, and making his observations.
“Oh, my lord! ring the bell! summon the people of the inn, and question
them,” said the old clergyman, eagerly moving toward the bell-rope.
“Stay—do not ring yet; to examine these people should be our last
resort; from appearances here, and from other circumstances, I doubt if
they know any thing about her flight. And if they do not, I prefer not
to enlighten them. Let us go down.”
They left the room, locking the door, and withdrawing the key.
When they had reached the parlor, Lord Montressor said:
“Make no stir; create no excitement; leave the people of the inn to
suppose, as they naturally will do, that Lady Montressor has left with
your knowledge and consent. I will tell you how we may manage, without
exciting their suspicion, to get information from them. Ring, and call
for your bill up to this present hour, as if you were about to leave,
which I suppose you will do in the course of the day. When the account
is presented, note its _last items_. See if there is supper, a
post-chaise, a messenger, or a porter, charged last night for Lady
Montressor. If so, you can cavil at these items, and so, by disputing a
little, get the whole facts, as far as they may be known here—whether
she took supper, whether she procured a conveyance from the house, at
what hour she went, and whither—and all without attracting particular
attention.”
“I see, I see,” exclaimed the old man, pulling the bell-rope so
vigorously that it was speedily answered by a waiter, who was directed
to bring up Mr. Oldfield’s account.
When, a few minutes after, the man reappeared, and presented the bill,
Mr. Oldfield took it and glanced down its columns: supper for Lady
Montressor was the last item.
“Hum-m—hum-m—hum-m” said the old gentleman, in the tone of one taking
exception—“I think there is some mistake here; I think her ladyship did
not take supper.”
“Yes, please your reverence, I carried it up,” replied the waiter.
“Hum-m—it must have been very late when you carried it up—as you say,”
said Mr. Oldfield, with the manner of a man who won’t be imposed upon.
“Yes, please zir—at ten o’clock,” replied the man.
“Hum-m. You have not charged the post-chaise, I see!”
“There wasn’t no po’shay ordered, for no one here, please zir.”
“Ah, yes, I—you are right—(the old man was about to say, “I
_recollect_—you are right,” but arrested himself before telling an
untruth)—yes, you are right! Lady Montressor went away in a cab.”
A few more adroitly put questions resulted in nothing satisfactory. The
bill was paid, and the waiter, with a small donation, dismissed.
“She _must_ have gone away in a cab, you know; so I told no untruth
about _that_,” said Mr. Oldfield, uneasy upon the subject of his little
duplicity.
“These, then, are the facts as far as we know them—simply, that she took
supper, rested awhile, wrote a letter, and, attended by her maid, left
the house after ten o’clock. Now, the question is, _Whither_ did she
go?”
The old minister mournfully shook his head. He could make no suggestion.
“I think,” continued Lord Montressor, notwithstanding his great anxiety,
calmly reasoning out the matter, “judging from all you told me, that she
meant to leave England; to do this she must have gone to Liverpool or to
London. The night train for London and Liverpool leaves at twelve
o’clock. I think she went by that train. The grand junction is at
Bristol. So far, I think, we have her. But at Bristol—did she take the
London or the Liverpool route? Have you any knowledge to throw light
upon this subject?”
The clergyman shook his head.
“Has she _friends_ at either of these places?”
Again the old man shook his head, with a mournful wave of the hand,
saying,
“_Once_, my lord, _many_. _Now_, I doubt, _any_.”
“My God! what will become of her! so delicate, so fragile, so sorrowful,
so inexperienced—alone, and unfriended in this bitter world! Oh!
Estelle! my Estelle! But I must not think of these things! to do so will
unfit me for action. Tell me, sir—has she means?”
The old man groaned—
“My lord, her father, when he sent her wardrobe, sent also a check for a
thousand pounds. She placed the latter in my hands for our current
expenses. I drew the money for it; but never could prevail on her to
receive back a shilling of it. It remains untouched in my possession
yet.”
“Then she has no funds at all! My Estelle! Oh! what will become of you!”
“Let me reflect—yes, she _has_ funds; she has a small competency in her
own right; five thousand pounds left her by her grandmother; it is in
the hands of a banker in London.”
“Then she has gone to London to draw it before leaving England. I may
overtake and recover her yet! Oh! if I had known this precious fact
three hours ago, I might then have gone after her by the noon train, and
have been only twelve hours behind her. As it is, I must now wait for
the midnight cars, and be a full day behind! Oh, Heaven! how difficult
to govern one’s impatience and be calm in a forced inaction under such
circumstances! But patience. I shall see her soon: all will be well.
What is the name of the banker who has her funds?” inquired his
lordship, taking out his tablets.
“Scofield Brothers, Lombard street, London.”
“Good-afternoon, sir. I am going to pack up for my journey,” said Lord
Montressor, rising, and returning the memorandum to his pocket.
“Good-day, my lord. I would myself accompany you on this journey, but
that my parishioners are in sad want of their truant pastor, and my old
wife is impatient to see me.”
“I know it, I know it: it must be so—good-bye, sir. You have my
everlasting gratitude for your kindness to Lady Montressor. Good-bye.”
“Stay one moment, my dear lord! You know the tenor of her note. Suppose
when you find her, she still refuses to return with you? Excuse my
question, for the sake of anxiety.”
“Should she still refuse—I should give her time, use reason, persuasion,
prayer: should not these avail, I should then use _my power_. I should
compel Estelle to return with me.”
“My lord?”
“Yes, I repeat it. She shall not sacrifice herself to fanaticism. I will
constrain my love to come home and be at peace?”
Thus the two gentlemen parted: Mr. Oldfield to prepare for his return to
his pastoral charge, Lord Montressor to make arrangements for his
journey to London.
His lordship was at the depot in full time. The train started at twelve.
Swiftly as he was carried forward, this seemed the longest ride and the
longest night he had ever known. Some minutes less than two hours
brought him to Bristol and the Grand Junction, where half an hour served
for change of cars; and thus at half-past three o’clock, he found
himself whirled along through night, and mist, and rain, on the route
toward London. Soon the morning dawned and reddened in the east behind
what seemed a bank of cloud; it was the mingled mist and fog that
overhung the leviathan of cities.
The cars entered London from the West and reached the depot just as the
sun arose. Lord Montressor took a hackney-coach and drove to a hotel in
the immediate neighborhood of Lombard street. As it was now very early,
some hours had yet to be lived through before he could hope to find the
bankers at their place of business. He ordered an apartment, and got
through the time as well as he could by making his morning toilet and
attempting his morning meal. Directly after breakfast, he entered a
carriage and drove to the banking-house of Scofield Brothers. He
inquired for either of the owners, and was ushered into a back office
where the junior partner sat writing at a desk.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Lord Montressor, advancing—“You are——”
“John Scofield, at your service,” answered the banker, rising.
“Lord Montressor.”
“Happy to see you, my lord. Pray be seated”—handing a chair. “Hope we
may be able to serve you this morning?”
“I thank you, sir.”
Lord Montressor looked for an instant into the honest face of the
banker, and then with the air of a man who states a fact known to
himself, rather than one who asks information upon a subject, he said:
“Lady Montressor was with you yesterday?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And withdrew her deposits, of course?”
“She did, my lord.”
Lord Montressor paused. How to frame his next inquiry as to the
whereabouts of Estelle, without exciting the astonishment and conjecture
of the man to whom he spoke, was now the difficulty. However, the
question must be put. Lord Montressor was not one to shrink; besides,
what indeed was the importance of Mr. John Scofield’s surmises and
speculations to Lord Montressor?
“Favor me with Lady Montressor’s London address, if you please, sir,”
said his lordship, quietly.
It was not with surprise nor wonder, but with simple consternation, that
the banker stood dumbfounded!
“Did you hear my question, Mr. Scofield?” asked Lord Montressor, after a
pause.
“I beg pardon, my lord,” said the banker, in a tone and manner in which
astonishment was modified by respect; “but I am unable to furnish you
with her ladyship’s address. Lady Montressor has left England.”
It was an overwhelming annunciation! Yet Lord Montressor neither started
nor exclaimed; he was a man of too much firmness and self-control to do
either, and perhaps also he had been too well prepared for it by what
had preceded it; yet it was a stunning blow; he felt it so; he looked
again and steadily, almost with rude scrutiny, into the face of John
Scofield. Yes, he thought he could trust that face and confide in the
rectitude and discretion of that man;—he knew also that the banker could
not be really ignorant of the great trial lately concluded at the Exeter
Assizes;—for the rest he must have faith in him.
“Will you favor me with a few moments of private conversation, Mr.
Scofield?” he inquired in a low voice.
“Certainly, my lord,” replied the banker, dismissing his clerk, and
closing and locking the door behind him. “Now, my lord, I am at your
service,” he concluded, returning and resuming his seat.
“You are of course aware, Mr. Scofield, of the painful scenes through
which Lady Montressor—and myself,” (he added in that affectionate and
generous spirit in which he ever wished to associate _himself_ in all
that was distressing and humiliating in her life,)—“have lately passed.”
“I am aware, my lord,” replied the banker, gravely and respectfully
dropping his eyes.
“But you do not know, perhaps, that Lady Montressor and myself have not
passed one single moment alone together since our marriage; or that
notwithstanding the perfect legality of the ceremony that binds us
together, Lady Montressor considers it her Christian duty to reserve
herself from my protection; and in order to do so effectually, has
withdrawn herself from my knowledge. Now, I would know whither she has
gone, if you, without a breach of confidence, can inform me.”
The banker who had listened in respectful sympathy to the words of Lord
Montressor, now paused and reflected before answering—
“My lord, as Lady Montressor, of course, made no confidential
communications to us, I do not know that any reason exists why I should
not give you all the information upon this subject in my power.”
“I will thank you then, sir, to proceed.”
“The manner in which I learned that Lady Montressor was about to leave
England was merely incidental, as my knowledge of her destination, is, I
may say, barely inferential.”
“Proceed, sir, proceed.”
“Her ladyship came, early yesterday morning—much about this time, in
fact,—to withdraw the funds she had in our hands. She required a portion
of them in cash and the remainder in drafts upon some American house.”
“Then she has gone to America!” interrupted Lord Montressor,
recollecting at that trying moment the fervent admiration with which
poor Estelle had often spoken of the young Western Republic.
“Undoubtedly, my lord.”
“Go on, sir! pray, go on—when did she sail? Her voyage must have been
very sudden! She must have chanced upon a ship about to leave port.”
“I think that quite likely, my lord. When she was about to leave us, she
required that the money and drafts should be sent down to her at the
Nelson’s Head before eleven o’clock, as she should leave the hotel at
that hour. We had correspondents in New York and in Baltimore. I
inquired of her ladyship upon which of these the drafts in her favor
should be drawn, and she said—upon the Baltimore house. The money was
sent in due season. Our clerk, who was intrusted with its delivery, saw
Lady Montressor leave the hotel at eleven o’clock. And we know that the
Princess, Captain Caton, sailed from this port at twelve, bound for
Baltimore.”
“Then we are to infer that she went to Baltimore, though the fact wants
confirmation. One piece of information more, sir,—the name of your
Baltimore correspondents?”
“Sommerville and Son, Pratt street.”
“Do you happen to know, sir, when the next vessel sails for the United
States?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Then I thank you for the assistance you have already given me.
Good-morning, sir.”
“Good-morning, my lord. If we can be so happy as to serve your lordship
in any capacity, pray consider us always at your orders.”
“I thank you, sir. Good-day.”
And thus the peer and the banker parted.
“Good Heaven! how very matured her plans must have been, and with what
dispatch she must have carried them out!” thought Lord Montressor, as he
left the banking-house of Scofield Brothers, re-entered his cab, and
drove to St. Catherine’s Dock, to inquire for vessels bound for the
United States. After a diligent search of several hours he found that
there was no ship to sail for Baltimore in less than two weeks. The
first that was expected to leave for that port was the Mercury, that
would sail on or after the fifteenth of June.
Much disappointed, he returned to his hotel, called for writing
materials, dashed off a hasty letter to Mr. Oldfield, detailing all that
had happened, mailed it, called a cab, and drove rapidly to the
Liverpool depot, which he reached just a few minutes before the cars
left.
His errand to Liverpool was to learn whether within less than two weeks
any vessel would leave that port for Baltimore. He discovered that there
was one to sail in six days for Boston, one in a week to Halifax, and
one in ten days for New Orleans. But as neither of these promised a
quicker termination to his proposed voyage, or a speedier meeting with
Estelle than did the chances of the Mercury, he turned from Liverpool in
disappointment.
He took the night train to Bristol, where he was more fortunate in
finding a vessel—the “Queen Charlotte”—that would sail for Baltimore on
or after the tenth of June. Upon further inquiry at other ports, he
found no more satisfactory prospect, and therefore he bespoke a passage
on the Queen Charlotte.
He then went down to his seat in Dorsetshire, and employed the
intervening time in making judicious arrangements for that voyage,
which, could he have found a vessel about immediately to sail for the
United States, he would certainly without any preparation have
undertaken.
Withal, however, it was a weary, weary decade of days that passed before
the tenth of June arrived, and Lord Montressor found himself on board
the good ship Queen Charlotte.