THE GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY OF THE LAW.
“There was on both sides much to say,
They’d hear the cause another day.
And so they did, and then a third
They heard it, and so kept their word.
But with demurrers and replies,
Long bills and answers filled with lies,
Delay, imparlance, and assoign,
The judges ne’er could issue join;
For many years the cause was spun,
And then stood where it first begun.”—_Dean Swift._
As all the readers of this true history may not acknowledge the same
grand passion for the sea, possessed by Barbara Brande and her present
biographer, I will spare them the description of the voyage to
Liverpool, merely saying, by the way, that the passage was pleasant,
quick, and prosperous. And that in five weeks from the day of sailing,
the Petrel, on the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas eve, cast her
anchor in the harbor of Liverpool.
A flood of business immediately overwhelmed Barbara.
Lord Montressor took leave of Miss Brande, and promising to see her soon
again, he left the vessel, took a cab, drove to the Metropolitan Railway
Depot threw himself on board the first train of cars, and steamed away
to London, where he arrived early the same evening.
He directed his servants to convey his baggage to Gerard’s Hall, Aleyn’s
Lane, then entered a carriage, and drove immediately to the bachelor
establishment of Baron Dazzleright, in Berkely Square. He was very
fortunate in finding Lord Dazzleright at home. He sent up his card and
was shown into the library, where, in a very few minutes, he was joined
by the advocate.
Lord Dazzleright advanced, eagerly extending both hands, and saying—not
only with his tongue, but with his eyes, his smile, and his whole
attitude and expression—
“Good Heaven! my dear fellow, I am so glad to see you!”
And he grasped his lordship’s hand and squeezed it, and without waiting
for him to speak, asked, hurriedly—
“What was the last news you received from England, previous to setting
out on your return?”
“News? None, except through the public prints. I have not had a letter
from England since I left her shores.”
“Why, how was that? We wrote frequently, anxiously.”
“I suppose there was no chance of my receiving letters. I left England,
as you know, about the middle of last June. I reached the United States
the first of September; left it for the West Indies the tenth of
October; reached Havana the first of November; left that port on the
twentieth, and here I am!”
“Ah! I see how it is! You have run away from our letters, that have
never been able to overtake you. But—first of all, have you seen _her_?”
“No.”
“Have you heard of her?”
“I will tell you,” said Lord Montressor. And forthwith he commenced and
related the history of his long search and only partial success.
“Then we certainly have a clue that if firmly held and followed will
lead to her recovery.”
“We have a clue; but I am under parole, not to follow that clue until
the decision of the Court of Arches is made known.”
“Humph—humph—humph,” muttered Lord Dazzleright—“and you know nothing?”
“Of her residence—no, nothing except that she lives in strict seclusion,
and is believed to enjoy some degree of health and tranquillity.”
“Ah! I was not just then thinking of _her_, though she generally
occupies my thoughts to the exclusion of all other subjects.”
“Of what then were you thinking?”
“Of what had occurred at this side of the water. But you say you have
heard nothing?”
“Nothing, but public news through the public prints! What _can_ you
mean, my friend?”
“I will tell you! but sit down! sit down! Bless me, you have been
standing hat in hand, like the collector for a charity, all this time!
sit down.”
Lord Montressor sank into a seat.
Lord Dazzleright went and pulled the bell-tassel, and when the next
moment a servant entered he gave the brief order—
“Supper an hour hence, in this room.” For Lord Dazzleright was one of
those Englishmen who never could separate the idea of conversation from
that of eating and drinking.
“Now then to business!” he said, returning and seating himself near Lord
Montressor. “First permit me to congratulate you upon the fortunate
circumstance that you _did not_ succeed in meeting Estelle.”
“Why, in the name of wonder, do you congratulate me upon any such
misfortune?” inquired Lord Montressor, in astonishment.
“I deny that it _was_ a misfortune! I contend that it was a providential
blessing—and that the misfortune would have been to have met Estelle.”
“Explain yourself! why should it have been such, to have found the
beloved one whom I went to seek?”
“Because it might possibly have happened that that beloved one, worn out
by importunity, might have rejoined you.”
“And what calamity would have followed then?” inquired Lord Montressor,
ironically.
“Just, simply ruin!”
“RUIN!”
“Ruin; unless you like a stronger word better!”
“A stronger word!”
“Yes! there is such a one—listen!” and Lord Dazzleright uttered the
single syllable—“shame!”—close to the ear of Lord Montressor, who
started as if struck by a bullet.
“This is not so!” he said. “Come, my friend, let us leave exaggerated
views of what might have been, and talk quietly of what _is_. In the
first place—as you have heard—Monsieur L’Orient is dead.”
“You are certain of it?”
“I was present when he was picked up from the sea identified his body
and assisted at his funeral.”
“He is therefore not likely to reappear and claim Estelle.”
“I should think not!”
“But I had rather hear you say that you are _sure_ not! After the lesson
we received from that gentleman on the danger of taking things for
granted, it is better that we should proceed only upon certainties.”
“Then I am _sure_ that Monsieur L’Orient will give us no more trouble.”
“Very well then, _circumstances alter cases_! that fact of Monsieur
L’Orient’s ascertained decease changes the whole face of affairs, and
the whole policy of proceeding!”
“I listen to hear further,” said Lord Montressor.
“As Monsieur L’Orient can never reappear to claim his hapless victim, we
must now go to work and establish the validity of his marriage with
her.”
“_What!_”
“Certainly! To establish his marriage will not _now_ be as _once_ it
would have been—to raise up an insurmountable obstacle to your own!
since the same decision that will declare Estelle to have been
Victoire’s wife—will prove her now to be his widow.”
“Yet still I do not see the necessity of pushing this affair through the
Spiritual Court, since the decision of that court can in no degree alter
the position of the facts as they now stand,” said Lord Montressor,
whose honest soul was concerned for realities rather than appearances.
“It is necessary to redeem the name of Estelle from unmerited
reproach—nay, more, it is necessary for your own honor.”
“I cannot feel that my honor or hers rests, or ever could rest, upon the
chances of a decision of the Court of Arches, or any other court upon
earth.”
“Hem! you would not wish it said that you had married Monsieur Victoire
L’Orient’s ——”
“SILENCE, SIR!” thundered Lord Montressor, growing livid with emotion.
“—— Victim,—would you?” concluded Lord Dazzleright, heedless of the
interruption.
“Dazzleright! Dazzleright! you abuse my forbearance.”
“You would not like to have that said? I know you would not. But then,
again, you had not looked at it in that light? I thought not. Now,
however, you perceive that it is necessary for Estelle’s sake, as well
as for your own, that her name be redeemed from unmerited reproach by
the establishment of the validity of the marriage! We must go to work as
fast as we can and prove that, after which you may woo and wed the
widow.”
“Dazzleright! Dazzleright! you are usually styled the best lawyer in
England!”
“Mine honorable friend, the best lawyer in England is he who best knows
how to use the legal tools,” replied Lord Dazzleright, laughing.
“You yourself took the ground that the childish marriage of Estelle was
illegal—to use your own expression, entirely ‘null, void, and of none
effect!’ You even _proved_ it to be so!—proved it by law, testimony, and
precedents!—proved it to the satisfaction of Sir James Allan Parke, of
the Bishop of Exeter, of the Reverend Mr. Oldfield, and of myself!—in
short, to the satisfaction of every body, except Estelle.”
“Which you think would make it very awkward for me now to go to work and
prove the same marriage to be perfectly legal, valid, and binding! to
prove this by as strong ‘law, testimony, and precedent!’—to prove it, if
necessary, ‘to the satisfaction of Sir James Allan Parke, of the Bishop
of Exeter, of the Reverend Mr. Oldfield,’ of yourself, and of all
others, not excepting Estelle! Not at all. It will be the easiest thing
in life! My dear sir, a lawyer who knows his business can, by a
judicious application of ‘law, testimony, and precedent,’ prove or
disprove any thing that he may be required to establish or to overthrow.
In law, ‘those who bind can loose,’ those who loose can bind! I will
undertake to establish before the Court of Arches, the marriage of Miss
Morelle and Monsieur L’Orient to have been perfectly legal, binding, and
indissoluble, except by crime or death!”
“Oh! Dazzleright! Dazzleright!”
“Of course, having once successfully assailed and overthrown that
marriage before one court, I cannot consistently support it before
another! But I can find a lawyer of talent and character, and can arm
him with my argument, so that he shall be able to do it.”
“Oh, Dazzleright! Dazzleright!”
“My conscientious client, you never worked your way up from the position
of a provincial pettifogger’s clerk to that of a Baron of the Exchequer,
or you would certainly have learned something of the infinite
possibilities of the law for those who know how to avail themselves of
its advantages. The law is the most exact of all _sciences_ in
_theory_—the most uncertain of all _arts_ in _practice_. All depends
upon the application of its powers. In law, we can do or undo just what
we please,” said the best lawyer in England.
“Oh, Dazzleright! Dazzleright! well named Dazzleright!”
“Hist! here comes Johnson to lay the cloth for supper,” said the Baron,
as that functionary appeared.
Lord Montressor arose and paced up and down the floor, saying to
himself—
“Thank God, my sweet Estelle knows nothing of this worldly wisdom, this
doubling and twisting, this steering by expediency! She has no hand in
it, is not responsible for it, is indeed totally ignorant of it. From
first to last, through all this veering and trimming of others, _she_
has held her pure, high, straightforward course, her path of duty, of
self-denial, self-immolation!” And by contrast with these time-servers
she seemed so true, so holy, and so lovely, that his feeling for her,
took the form of prayer, and he stood in perfect silence before the
window, until the cheery voice of Lord Dazzleright summoned him to the
table.
“Tell me one thing!” said Lord Montressor as he took his seat at the
board, “tell me for the satisfaction of my old friendship for you,—how
you could conscientiously seek to overthrow Estelle’s first marriage,
unless you believed it to have been illegal?—and if you believe it to be
so, how can you possibly seek now to establish it!”
“I will tell you—as you said, a lawyer’s opinion or a Judge’s decision
cannot in the slightest degree alter the moral aspect of any case. Now
the moral aspect of that case, to me, was this:—that no sinner should be
allowed to take advantage of his own sin—that Monsieur Victoire should
not be permitted to carry off a woman of whom he had so dishonestly
possessed himself—if there was any law to prevent him from doing so! And
of course I knew that there was plenty of law for that, as for most
other purposes, good or evil. And I determined to use the law. As for
the legal character of that marriage—there was so much to be said on
both sides, that really, had my own feelings been disinterested, I
should have found it difficult to have taken up with zeal, _either_
side; but my sympathies were strongly enlisted, and I went to work with
all my heart and soul to save Estelle from the talons of the vulture
Victoire. Now that the bird of prey is dead—though neither the moral nor
the legal aspect of that fatal marriage is altered by that circumstance,
any more than it could be by the decision of a court—yet my policy is
changed—it is now expedient, for the reasons heretofore stated, that I
use the powers of the law to establish the validity of the marriage,
which it was then expedient that I used the same powers to overthrow.
Then I was compelled to choose between two evils—now I advocate a
positive good.”
“Thank God, Estelle is innocent of the knowledge of your policy! I can
bear this system of expediency in _you_. I can even thank you for it,
and admit that there is a sort of worldly wisdom in it! Nay, more—I can
accept your congratulations upon my disappointment in failing to meet
Estelle! And I can rejoice in the knowledge of never having passed one
moment alone with her since our marriage ceremony! For, indeed, scarcely
to save my own soul alive, would I bring upon her stricken young head
one shadow of reproach! I will await the action of the Arches Court.”
“And then?”
“If that court pronounce her first, infantile marriage to have been, as
I was led to believe, illegal, it follows that the second one was legal,
and that Estelle is my lawful wife. If, on the contrary, they adjudge it
to have been valid—still by the death of L’Orient, Estelle is free—I
should woo and wed her. That is all.”
“Except that in the latter case, Estelle would be freed from the sign of
blame!”
“She is free from that in either case! She was innocent of the intention
of wrong doing!”
“Assuredly, but the world judges _acts_, not intentions.”
Lord Montressor made a movement of impatience, and then said—
“Since L’Orient, at whose suit the action was brought before the Arches
Court is dead—at whose instance is that suit now carried forward?”
“At her father’s.”
“At her father’s!”
“At Sir Parke Morelle’s.”
“He has returned to England?”
“And to his right mind, which is better still.”
“You amaze me! Is he reconciled to his unhappy young daughter, then?”
inquired Lord Montressor, in astonishment.
“Easy—easy—do not be in a hurry. You said that Estelle was in Maryland,
North America. Now, Sir Parke has but just returned from Italy, and is
spending his Christmas at Hyde Hall, Devonshire. How is it possible they
should be now reconciled?”
“By an epistolary correspondence I should think it might have been
done.”
“But it has not been done! Sir Parke does not even know where she is, or
any thing of her movements since the trial, except that which we learned
from yourself, namely, that she embarked for America. He is exceeding
anxious for a meeting and a reconciliation with her. He is too proud and
fastidious to advertise even with caution and disguise; but he has
dispatched a confidential agent to America to seek her out.”
“‘A needle in a haystack!’ Does he expect so to find her on that vast
continent?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, impatiently, for he remembered
that but for Sir Parke’s unnatural severity and too late repentance, the
poor, “stricken deer” might now be safe in the covert of her father’s
house.
“Yes! he hopes his agent will find her even on that ‘vast continent!’
Sir Parke, like most untraveled English country gentlemen, looks upon
the ‘vast continent’ of America as a ‘vast’ wilderness, with only a few
coast towns such as Boston, New York, and the like, whose population
might be soon sifted by an intelligent ‘detective.’ That now, in spite
of geography and newspapers, is the cherished idea of Sir Parke.”
“Pshaw!”
Lord Dazzleright laughed.
Lord Montressor arose, and looked steadily into the eyes of the
advocate.
“What do you suppose, Dazzleright, to be the cause of Sir Parke
Morelle’s change of feelings and purposes toward his daughter?”
“We might readily suppose Dame Nature to be the fundamental cause.
Surely, his present relenting is more natural than his former severity
toward her.”
“Sir Parke is not a man to be governed by his natural affections.”
“Perhaps not _always_. But in this case, what is left him but revision
of his former sentence against Estelle? Has he any other daughter?—has
he any son?—has he even a niece or nephew, or any other heir to his vast
estate?”
“It is true he has not; you put the point pertinently. Yet, that
circumstance alone would not sway his conduct! The opinion of the world
is the breath of his nostrils.”
“Eureka! you have found it?”
“Then I am more confounded than ever! being at a great loss to know how
his love of the world should move him in favor of her whom the world has
forsaken.”
“There you are mistaken. Most people _are_ confounded, who reason from
false premises. The world did not forsake Estelle! Estelle forsook the
world; you pursued her in such hot haste, as not to have first
discovered this fact?”
“What do you tell me!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in a sort of glad
surprise and incredulity.
“That there is not a woman in England more beloved and respected by
those from whom love and respect are most valuable, than our Estelle.”
“Dazzleright! this cannot be so! The world is not so just to the
unfortunate.”
“The world, like the devil, is not half so black as it is painted.
‘Listen! reaction is commensurate with action.’ It was inevitable, at
first, when the suddenness and enormity of the charge brought against
Estelle had shocked her friends and acquaintances from their propriety,
that she should have been regarded with abhorrence. But when that panic
was past; when people had time to become composed and thoughtful; and,
above all, when the simple FACTS developed and proved upon the trial had
replaced the exaggerated _fictions_ of gossip; and when it was
understood that Estelle had, from the moment of her arrest at the altar,
reserved herself from the presence of Lord Montressor, and had, as soon
as possible, withdrawn herself from his knowledge, there was a mighty
reaction in her favor.”
“Thank God! Oh, thank God for that! Thank God that the public were able
to know Estelle and to do her justice!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, who,
though in heart might despise the fluctuations of popular opinion for
himself, yet dreaded it for Estelle.
“Thank God for all things, and the world for nothing,” replied
Dazzleright; “Estelle’s whole life of goodness was not to be abrogated
by one storm of calumny! That was a crisis in which the power of her own
personal righteousness saved her. Your own name, character, reputation
and popularity also served her well!”
“Whatever of good repute, or ‘golden opinions’ I possessed were at her
service—were under her feet, if that would have saved them from the
burning plow-shares!” said Lord Montressor, fervently.
“Unscorched she passed those fiery plow-shares. Her trial over, people
judged her, in some sort, as you and I judge her. Her beautiful
Christian life, the facts elicited on her trial, her subsequent
self-sacrifice, all tended to draw back to her esteem and affection. All
whose good opinion is worth having, love and revere her. Even the
envious and malignant dare not traduce her, lest their motive become too
apparent. And now I say, as I said in the beginning, there is not a
woman in England more sincerely esteemed than Estelle. Sir Parke
Morelle, restored in some degree to his reason, came back to find this
state of feeling prevailing. It affected, it influenced, it governed
him. He resolved to seek and call home his wandering child. If his
resolution needed confirming, it received confirmation. Estelle’s
misfortunes had moved sympathy in the highest quarters—Sir Parke, and
Lady Morelle attended the first drawing-room of the season. It was
unusually brilliant, and so crowded that Royalty could vouchsafe but a
word or two to each passing aspirant for notice. Lady Morelle’s turn
came; judge the effect when Queen Adelaide—her goodness is
proverbial—inquired graciously after the health of Lady Morelle’s
daughter, expressing regret at not seeing her present! This was done for
a purpose, and it effected its object. Ladies of the most ancient
peerages—of a nobility indubitable and redoubtable, who can do as they
please, because it is impossible for them to do wrong—followed now the
royal lead. The more timid, though not less well-disposed, brought up
the rear. You understand this was not done all at once at the
drawing-room—though thence the fiat issued—thence the impetus was given.
Even the most cowardly were not afraid to venture where Royalty had gone
before!”
“But Sir Parke! Lady Morelle! what reply could _they_ make, good Heaven!
when asked for their hapless daughter? Some such answer I suppose as
Cain gave when asked for his brother!”
“Humph! they just replied that she was in America, and they had sent out
a confidential agent there to seek her. Eh bien! you comprehend that the
ordeal is well past!”
“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Lord Montressor.
“Amen—and long live Queen Adelaide!” replied Dazzleright.
Lord Montressor looked around.
“What do you want?” inquired Lord Dazzleright.
“My hat.”
“You are not going?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no! here are some famous cigars—stop and try them.”
“Cannot. I am down into Devonshire by the midnight train! Good-bye!”
“But you are not going, certainly?”
“Absolutely and instantaneously. I shall not even first return to my
hotel, as it is now eleven o’clock, and the Western train starts at
twelve. So I will tax your kindness to send one of your men to Gerard’s,
to direct my people there to follow me by the next train, if you will do
me the favor.”
“Certainly; but you have not said to what point in the great county of
Devon I shall direct the fellows.”
“You surely know! I am off to see Sir Parke Morelle at Hyde Hall. Tell
them to put up at the ‘Morelle Arms, Hyde.’”
“Humph! Do you know that I was due there to eat a Christmas dinner
to-morrow? So it may ensue that I shall follow you to assist at that
grand pow-wow that must come off to-morrow evening.”
“I shall be very well satisfied if you do! Shall I say to Sir Parke that
you will come?”
“If you please?”
“Good-bye, then,” said Lord Montressor, extending his hand.
“Bon voyage!” replied the other, pressing the proffered member.
And so the companions parted.
Lord Montressor re-entered the cab that had, during his visit, waited at
the door, and gave the order:
“To Western Railway Depot.”
The cabman drove on, and in due season reached this place.
Lord Montressor entered the cars, which were on the eve of starting, and
soon found himself whirled onward toward the Western Grand Junction,
which near daybreak he reached.
Here he left the cars for the mail-coach that daily passed the village,
which was the point of his destination.