CHAPTER I.

AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING.

All! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, that but an hour before Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness! And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!—_Byron._

It was the first of May, the marriage day of the Viscount Montressor, of Montressor Castle, Dorsetshire, and Estelle, only daughter and heiress of Sir Parke Morelle, Hyde Hall, Devonshire.

A glorious morning! the cloudless, blue sky smiled down upon the green hills and dewy dales and deep woods of Devon; and the park around the Hall was all alive and musical with the joyous songs of birds, and the merry laughter of young men and maidens gathering to celebrate their May-day festival, and to do honor to the marriage of their landlord’s daughter.

The elm-shaded, winding avenue that led from the highway to the house, was arched at each terminus by a mammoth wreath of flowers, and many were the carriages that passed under them, on their way to assist at the wedding; and these contained only the bridesmaids, and the nearest friends and relatives of the family, whose relationship or position gave them the right to attend the bride to church;—for a still more numerous party had been invited to meet her at the altar. The villagers and tenants, grouped about under the shade of the great old trees, or wandering over the greensward on either side of the grand avenue, watched these equipages as they rolled on, commenting—as usual—

“That is Sir William Welworth’s carriage—he is the bride’s uncle by her mother.”

“Who don’t know that?—Hush! my eyes! lend me a rumberrell, Joe, or I shall be dazed blind, along o’ looking at this turn out! Whose is it? since you know everything.”

“That?—that’s Lord Dazzleright’s—the great cove’s as made a fortin’ and _riz by the law_—(not at a rope’s end, though, as _you’ll_ rise one of these days, Bill, my lad, if you don’t keep out o’ the squire’s preserves)—but by reading and pleading, and keeping on the right, do you see, of the powers that be; until he got himself made a Baron of;—which people _do_ say he’ll get upon the woolsack yet,” replied the gamekeeper, Joe, as the splendid equipage of the new member of the house of peers dashed past them.

“Yes; but what does he _he_ do here?” inquired the laborer, Bill.

“He’s the god-father of the bride, you know, besides being a bachelor without children, I mean sons-and-heirs.”

“Here comes somethin’ like a huss—my granny! how solemncolly! who’s comin’ to a funeral?”

“Oh let me see!—_that?_ why that’s the carriage of the old Duchess of Graveminster, the grand-aunt of Lady Morelle. She was expected at the hall yesterday; something must o’ stopped her,” said Joe, as a large, sombre, dark-colored traveling carriage lumbered heavily past.

“What o’clock is it, Mr. Joe? you’re a weatherwise, and you can tell,” inquired a young girl leaving a group of maidens and joining the two men.

“What o’clock, my dear?” replied the gamekeeper, looking up at the sun with an air of confidence. “Well, I should say it was just about a quarter to ten.”

“Oh—dear me! and the weddingers won’t pass till nearly twelve! and here we are to wait two mortal hours! and I want to be away at the Maypole so much.”

“Hush! my darling; look! here comes his lordship’s carriage, itself, just as sure as you’re the prettiest lass in the country,” whispered the gamekeeper, as a very plain but handsome traveling carriage of dark green, drawn by a pair of spirited grey horses, rolled on up the avenue toward the Hall.

“_Whose_ Lordship’s? What are you thinking about, Mr. Joseph?” asked the little maiden, fretfully.

“Why, _his_ Lordship’s! _The_ Lorship’s—the _only_ Lordship to be thought about now, my dear! Lord _Montressor’s_ Lordship!”

“Now _that’s_ impossible, Mr. Joseph! If you _be_ gamekeeper, you sha’n’t make game of _me_, at that rate. Lord Montressor! Marry-come-up! What should _he_, of all men, be doing here at _this_, of all hours?”

“Come up to marry, I suppose. Anyhow it is _he_.”

“Nonsense! It can’t _be_, I tell you! It would be out of all manners! Don’t I know? He’s to bring all his groomsmen, and _his_ friends and relations to the _church_, and wait _there_ for Miss Morelle and her friends and relations! _That’s_ manners.”

“I know it be!”

“That shows it can’t be Lord Montressor who drove past just now.”

“But I know _it be him_, also! Don’t I know his Lordship’s grey and crimson liveries? and his co’t arms—the lion _couchant_, and the lady _sittin on’t_? It’s _him_, now just as sure as you are just the sweetest creetur in the world; but what I be thinking of is—_what’s to pay?_ It looks like somethin’ was _on_regular!”

“Onreglar? I believe you! Who ever heard of such a thing?—if it _be_ Lord Montressor.”

It was Lord Montressor.

Early that morning a note from his affianced bride had been put in his hands, summoning him to a private conference with her at the Hall before they should proceed to the church. Surprised and filled with vague uneasiness, his lordship lost no time in obeying the behest.

And it was really his carriage and liveries that passed.

Within the most secluded of her suite of richly-furnished apartments at the old Hall, half buried in the depths of a cushioned chair, reclined the bride expectant, in bridal array.

On her right, a gorgeous cheval mirror reflected in profile her beautiful form.

On her left, through the rose-colored silk hangings of the half-open bay window, wafted by the breeze, came glimpses of the pure blue sky and tender green foliage of spring, scents of fragrant flowers, and sounds of singing birds and innocent laughter, from the park.

She was alone, her attendants having, by her own desire, withdrawn.

Estelle Morelle—or “La belle Estelle,” “Beautiful Stella,” “the Midnight Star”—as, for her resplendent dark beauty, she was poetically named—was at this time twenty-five years of age, and more lovely than a poet’s or an artist’s ideal. Her form was of medium height, and very slender, though well-rounded, with a graceful head, over which fell rich masses of jet-black, silken ringlets, shading a face of pure, pale olive complexion, with large, mournful, dark eyes, habitually vailed by the long, drooping lashes, and delicate, though full curved lips, ever patiently closed as in silent resignation. The prevailing expression of her dark, brilliant countenance was a profound melancholy.

The announcement of Miss Morelle’s approaching marriage with the Viscount Montressor had created a profound sensation in the fashionable and aristocratic circles. A peerless beauty, the only child and heiress of the oldest, wealthiest and haughtiest baronet in the West of England, her heart had been as much the object of aspiration to the youthful and ardent, as her hand and fortune had been the end of desire to the mercenary and ambitious.

At the early age of seven years, Estelle had been placed at one of the first-class female institutions of learning at Paris, then as now, considered among the very best of their kind in the world, and there had been left to remain until her sixteenth year, when the sudden and calamitous breaking up of the institution, and her own severe illness, had occasioned her removal. That illness had been attended with marked changes in the constitution and temperament of the young girl.

Estelle, previously the most careless, light-hearted and capricious of children, left her chamber of convalescence a subdued, thoughtful, melancholy woman! The laughing lips of girlhood closed in patient sadness; the sparkling eyes sheathed their beams under long, shadowy lashes, now seldom lifted; the silvery, elastic voice, sank into deep and thrilling tones; the free, glad motions were measured and controlled.

She never entered another school, but completed her education under the best masters, at home. To dissipate what was considered a transient melancholy, her parents traveled with her over Europe, pausing at each capital and chief town, to show her all that was interesting and instructive. But, though their daughter repaid their attentions with the sweetest gratitude, and obeyed them with the gentlest docility, she showed no interest in the passing scenes. And though everywhere her extreme beauty and sweetness of disposition, not less than her fortune and position, drew around her many friends and admirers, Estelle remained alone in her isolated thoughts and feelings. Every most distinguished physician in Europe had been consulted upon her case, and the result of their wisdom was a decision that this melancholy was not the effect of ill health, still less of secret sorrow, but that it was a constitutional phase that would probably pass away with maturing years.

They returned to England, presented their daughter at court, and introduced her into all the gayeties of fashionable life. But with no happy effect upon the spirits of Estelle, who remained profoundly unmoved amid the _eclat_ that greeted her _debut_. Her picturesque beauty was the theme of all tongues—her mournful glance was fascinating—her deep tones thrilling—her touch magnetic; all felt her power, yet she who could move all others, remained unimpressed. She who sought no conquests, for that very reason perhaps, made many. A peer and two commoners, in succession, laid their fortunes at her feet, and were in turn kindly and firmly rejected.

So passed her first season in London, at the close of which her parents took her down to their seat in Devonshire. Here, in her thoughtful, quiet, unostentatious manner, she engaged in works of benevolence among the villagers and the tenantry. And her father, hoping much from this employment, gave her full liberty of action, and smiled to see that she seemed less pensive than before.

At the beginning of the parliamentary term, the family went up to London.

And it was here in her second season in town that Estelle formed the acquaintance of Lord Montressor, a young nobleman but lately acceded to his titles and estates, but already known as a man of the most high-toned moral and intellectual excellence, as a righteous as well as a rising statesman, and as one, who in the event of a change of ministry, would be likely to be called to fill a high official position in His Majesty’s new cabinet. Aside from the glare of rank and wealth and power, Charles Montressor was a glorious specimen of the Creator’s workmanship. Above the average standard of height among his countrymen, broad shouldered and deep-chested, with a noble head, and a face full of wisdom and goodness, his appearance truly indicated the warm benevolence, clear intelligence, and pure spirit of the man. His presence soon inspired Estelle with a faith which she had not been able to feel in any other that approached her. He drew nearer to her than any other had been permitted to come; he crossed the magic circle of her isolation and conversed with her as no other had been allowed to do. The world looked and said that the beautiful Stella had at last met her master and was conquered.

At this stage of affairs, the parliamentary term being over, Sir Park Morelle and his family left London for Hyde Hall.

Lord Montressor asked and received permission to follow them, and in less than a month availed himself of the privilege to do so. Thus it was in the home of her ancestors, after having obtained the cordial sanction of her parents, and believing himself sure of the affections of their daughter, Lord Montressor offered his heart and hand to the lovely Estelle, and was, to his profound astonishment, instantly and firmly rejected! In thus rejecting his suit she wept long and bitterly, praying his forgiveness, that the happiness she had experienced and exhibited in his society should have betrayed him into making this declaration, and beseeching him never to renew his suit; but to leave and forget her. There was something in the tone of her refusal which confirmed and deepened his previous conviction that—even in rejecting—she loved him! But with his high-toned sentiments he would not in the least degree presume upon that knowledge. Taking her hand with deferential tenderness, he said—

“Stella!—a man never but once, in his whole existence, loves a woman as I love you! I will not inquire the cause of the rejection, which you have certainly a right to make without assigning any reason for the act. And after having received this repulse, I may not in honor distress you by a renewal of my suit. But this, in parting, I must say to you—that, though I go hence, I shall not go out of the reach of your friends; I shall never address another woman; so if ever in the course of future weeks, or months, or years, however long, you may think proper to review the decision of this evening, Stella, I implore you, do not hesitate to let me know! Write but one word, ‘Come,’ and I return to lay an unchanged heart at your feet!”

Estelle was weeping too bitterly to reply.

“Stella, will you promise to do this?”

“Lord Montressor, best and dearest friend! Do not seek to bind yourself to one who can give you nothing in return! Try to think of the melancholy girl that you have pitied and loved, only as a shadow that fell for a moment across the sunshine of your path, and then passed away forever!—and so forget her!”

“Stella, I have pledged my honor never to renew this suit, unless you reverse in my favor the sentence you have pronounced upon it; but, inspired by the deep and deathless love I bear you, and ‘hoping against hope,’ I feel impelled to implore before leaving you that, in the event of a favorable change of sentiment or purpose toward me, you will not hesitate to give me leave to return. Stella, will you promise me so much as that?”

“Noblest friend that I have in the world, how gladly would I promise, but I must not, Montressor. Were I to do so, you would feel bound to wait the changes of my mood, and so, for a most undeserving love, might miss, in some nobler woman’s affections, the happiness in store for you.”

“Stella, will you raise your sweet, mournful eyes to mine one moment, that you may read my soul while I speak?”

Estelle lifted her dark orbs to meet the clear, pure, blue eyes bent with so much love and candor upon hers, and read the deep, unchanging truth and constancy of his soul as he said:

“Stella, in the presence of the heart-searching God, who sees and hears me, I assure you that I shall never love another woman as I love you, and therefore, of course, can never wed another; so that, whether you give me this slightest of hopes or not, I am equally and forever bound! _Now_ will you promise, Stella? Remember, it is only to let me know in case of a change in your sentiments.”

For an instant the light of an unutterable love and joy broke on her beautiful, dark face, and her smiling lips parted to speak; when, as if a sudden memory and warning had griped her very heart, she uttered a low, sharp cry, turned paler than before, and then said:

“No, no, my lord. Stella cannot even give you that. She is poorer than the poorest in gifts to you. She can only pray that you may forget her and be happy.”

He looked profoundly disappointed and troubled. But soon mastering his despondency, he said hopefully:

“Well, dearest Stella, although you reject me without apparent reason, and refuse to give me the slightest promise or the most distant hope, yet, _I repeat_, should you, in the long future, change your purpose, and write to me one word—‘Come’—I will hasten to lay at your feet an unchanged heart. Good-bye. God be with you!” and raising her hand, he bowed over it, pressed it to his lips, turned and left the room.

Some moments after, Lady Morelle, who came to seek and congratulate her daughter upon what she imagined to be the only possible result of the interview, found Estelle lying in a swoon upon the floor. It was followed by a long and terrible illness, terminating in a tediously protracted convalescence. The town season was at hand before Estelle was able to re-enter society.

They went up to London, and once more the “star of beauty” arose upon its world. And though the cloud upon her life settled darker and heavier, day by day—though she grew still more reserved, gloomy, and isolated—she was more followed, flattered, and courted than before.

Thus three years had passed away, when one morning, while the family, then occupying their town house in Berkely square, were seated at a late breakfast, and Sir Parke was engaged in reading aloud from the London Times an account of the saving of the French ship—Le Duc D’Anjou—wrecked off the coast of Algiers—Estelle uttered a low cry and sank fainting from her seat.

This attack was not, as the other had been, followed by illness; on the contrary, from that day, the cloud seemed lifted from her head, and even those who had most admired her face in its shadow, were enchanted to see how brilliant was her beauty in its sunshine! Her health and spirits daily improved, yet in the midst of all this flowing tide of new life Estelle astonished her friends by suddenly, in the height of the London season, retiring to her father’s country seat, where she remained in strict seclusion from the world for eighteen months.

At the end of this period, Lord Montressor, who had never left England, or lost trace of his beloved Stella, and who was now staying at his castle in Dorsetshire, was one day seated at breakfast when the morning mail was brought him. Among a score of letters the first that attracted his attention was a dainty white envelope superscribed in a delicate handwriting. He took that up first and opened it—it contained but one word—“COME.”

The light of an ineffable joy broke over his face! Oh! he had waited, patiently, hopefully, years, for that word, and at last he had received it! Thanks to Heaven in the first instance! and then pushing all the other letters unopened aside he sprung up, rang for his valet, and ordered his valise packed and horses put to the carriage.

In twenty more minutes he had reached the railway station just as the cars were about to start, and in three hours he was at Hyde Hall and standing in the presence of Estelle!—she looking so beautiful and happy!

With the old chivalric enthusiasm of devotion, he dropped, at once, upon his knee, and raised her hand to his lips, saying—

“For four years I have hoped and waited for one word from you, and at last, beloved, you have written—‘Come,’ and I am at your feet, as I said, with an unchanged heart!”

“But I,” she said, deeply blushing, while she held both hands to raise him—“I, my Lord, have not an unchanged heart! for longer than four years I have loved you more than woman’s tongue may tell—and never more, than at the hour in which we bade farewell, as I thought, forever!”

“I know it, beloved! I knew it _then_! knew it _always_! I never doubted it! Could I be deceived in the dear heart of the woman I loved! No! and that was the secret of my patience!” he replied, taking his seat on the sofa by her side.

“And yet you never inquired, and do not even now inquire, why, without explanation and without hope, I sent you from my presence, and why now, without apparent reason, I summon you back!” she said, as a shade of the old sadness fell upon her beautiful face.

“Your motives, dearest, were, and are your own. Not until your spirit move you to do so, shall you give them to me! I have full confidence in you, beautiful Stella!”

“_Confidence! oh my God?_” she exclaimed in a low, deep, thrilling tone.

“Why, what is the matter, dearest?”

She looked up suddenly, a smile of worshiping love, breaking like sunlight over her dark face, and said—

“Nothing, nothing my lord! but that all your thoughts and feelings are so elevated beyond your poor Estelle’s! And yet she would almost choose it so! for could she be an angel, she would wish you to be something far higher—a god!”

“Sweet enthusiast! moderate your aspirations, or the world and its people will disappoint you! Be not an idolater; worship only God, my Stella.”

Such was their meeting!

Yet, occasionally, throughout the interview, a sudden shadow like the recurrence of a painful thought, would fall upon her bright face and then pass as it came.

They were engaged, and within a few days the marriage was announced to take place on the first of May.

But it was observed by the nearest friends of the bride, that from the day of her betrothal, her spirits had been marked by the strangest fluctuations. Sometimes with her beautiful dark face illumined with a deep, still, almost religious joy, she moved about as it were, on “winged feet,” or sat brooding in a happy trance. At other times, she fell into deep gloom and anxiety, as inexplicable as it was alarming to her friends, who greatly feared her relapse into the deep melancholy that had so long overshadowed her, and that they had grown to dread as a serious constitutional malady. But they hoped every thing from her approaching marriage with the man she loved. Lord Montressor observed with the deepest interest the uncertain moods of his betrothed; but with the high-toned sentiments that distinguished him, refrained from inquiring, and awaited her voluntary revelations.

At last the first of May, the marriage day, upon which I have presented the parties to the reader, arrived, and all the _haut ton_, as I said, were gathered at the Hall or at the church to do honor to the solemnities.

And the expectant bride, in her bridal robe and vail waited within her boudoir, the arrival of the bridegroom, whom she had summoned to a private interview before they should proceed to the church. She had not long to wait. He who quickly responded to her slightest intimation, immediately obeyed her call.

Yet when she heard his firm elastic step approaching,

“Now God have mercy on me!” she prayed, and covered her face with her hands.

He entered, unannounced, and saying,

“My beautiful Stella! I am here, you perceive, by your commands!”

She dropped her hands, and revealing a face pale with misery, spoke in a thrilling, deep, impassioned tone—

“You are here by my _supplication_, my lord! I have no right to command.”

“We will waive that! what is your will, my dearest Stella?”

“My _prayer_, my lord—is first, for your forgiveness.”

“_Forgiveness?_—my Stella!”

“Aye! my dear lord! you see before you a penitent and a supplicant, who may soon be something far more wretched!”

“My Stella! what mean you?”

“Come to the window, Lord Montressor!” she said, rising and preceding him. “Look out,” she continued, putting aside the rose-colored hangings, and revealing a view of the park below, alive with its restless multitude. “What are all these people waiting for, my lord?”

“What are they waiting for, my Stella?—for that, for which I also wait, with how much more impatience!” he answered, while a deep flush of love and joy, for an instant, supplanted the anxiety on his face.

“They wait to see a bride pass, where a bride may never go!” she said in a solemn voice.

“Stella! great Heaven! what say you!” he exclaimed, gazing on her with profound astonishment.

“That the bride they expect is unworthy to stand before God’s holy altar beside Lord Montressor!”

“Unworthy, Stella! You!”

“_Most unworthy_, my lord!” she said, dropping her arms, and dropping her head in an attitude of the deepest misery. “I should have made this confession long ago, Lord Montressor; but I have deceived you—I have deceived you!”

“In what respect, Stella? My God! It cannot be! No, it cannot be! that while betrothed to me, you do not love me!”

“_Not love you! Oh! my dear lord!_” she murmured, in a voice of thrilling tenderness that carried conviction of her truth to his deepest heart.

“What mean you, then, dearest one? if indeed you return my deep love.”

“Oh! I do, I do, Montressor; whatever happens, wherever you go, take that assurance with you! I love you, my lord! shall ever love you, even though after what I shall have told you, you repulse and hate me, and go to our friends and say,—‘That woman whom I was about to wed, is but a whited sepulchre, whom I have proved, and whom I now reject’—and so leave me to the scorn of men, still I say—ever shall say—I love you, Lord Montressor! I love you, and the consciousness of being unworthy of your love, is the bitterest element in my punishment,” she said, in a voice of such profound misery, that Lord Montressor could scarcely continue to believe her agitation unfounded or exaggerated.

He dropped upon a seat, and sitting still and white as a carved image of stone, gazed upon her, waiting her further communications.

She had thrown herself into her chair and covered her face with her hands.

“Speak, Stella!” at last he said, in kind, encouraging tones.

She dropped her hands from a face from which a deep blush had burned away the lilies, essayed to obey, but the words seemed to suffocate her, and she remained silent.

“Speak, dearest Stella,” once more he said.

She cowered and shuddered, murmuring—

“Oh! kill me! kill me! Indeed I think it would be right!”

“My beloved Stella,” he said, in a voice of deep tenderness, rising and approaching her—“can you not trust in me?”

“Ah! not with loving words though! Kill me not with loving words!” she cried almost wildly.

“Stella, be calm, beloved! Your bitter self-accusation cannot make you seem unworthy to me. Take time and explain.”

“Lord Montressor! it was my deep love—alas! the selfish and injurious sentiment, unworthy the holy name of love,—that has sealed my lips so long! A hundred times I have been on the point of making to you a revelation, that I have never even made to my parents, and as often the terrible fear that I should never afterward see your face again, has withheld me.”

“My dearest Stella! I know not what you may be about to reveal to me; and since it is not that you do not love me, _I_ do not dread to hear it. I cannot be mistaken in your pure, womanly heart, Stella; and here I pledge you my word, that whatever that revelation may be, _it shall make no change in our present relations_.”

“What! Oh, Heaven! What do you say!” exclaimed Stella, holding her breath in listening.

“I say, beloved, that in an hour from this, I shall with your permission, lead you to the altar; and that whatever you may in the meanwhile reveal—since it is not that you have ceased to love me—shall not change my purpose.”

“What, what, have I not misunderstood you, my lord? You did not mean to tell me——?”

“I meant to tell you what I now repeat,—that nothing you have to reveal shall change our present relations. Come, dear Stella! if any secret sorrow oppresses your heart, lay it trustingly on mine. Confide in one, who in another hour will be your husband.”

“Dear Father in Heaven! dost Thou hear him?—dost Thou hear this man whom I have so long deceived, and whom I would have so bitterly wronged. Montressor!” she said in a voice of thrilling tenderness,—“does not the grief, and terror, and humiliation, written on my brow, _warn_ you that some deep sin is to be confessed?—something that may, or must change our present relations, and make it incumbent on you to go below and announce to our friends—‘this woman is totally lost, and our marriage is at an end.’ You are warned. Will you still promise blindly?”

“Not blindly, dearest Stella! That something in your past life has gone very wrong,—that you have hitherto shrunk from confiding in me, I do begin to see; but that your sense of honor now obliges you, despite your terrors, and in the face of all consequences, to make the revelation, I also see! Stella, I have known and loved you, only you, for seven years! I am not a man to be mistaken in any woman; much less in you, whom I have known and loved thus long! I love you! esteem you! trust in you! Do you likewise confide in me! Lay your secret sorrow on your promised husband’s faithful heart, beloved, for he is able to shelter and sustain you,” he said, and went and closed the blinds of the bay-window, to shut out the glaring sun and the merry laughter, and then returned and sat down, and held out his arms to receive her, saying—

“Come, love! come drop your weary head upon my bosom, and whisper what you have to say.”

“No, no, Lord Montressor; at your feet, rather, should your poor Stella tell her story,” she murmured, sinking down before him, and dropping her face upon her hands; but he caught and raised her to his heart, and held her there.

“Come now, dearest Stella, speak!”

“Alas, alas, my lord, you think me a young girl whom you clasp to your bosom. I am not! What, you do not put me thence?”

He gathered her closer, and bent his head down protectingly over her.

“Lord Montressor, do you hear me? Do you hear me say that I am no young girl whom you gather to your bosom?”

“A widow, then, my Stella,” he said, changing color, but modulating his voice so that no slightest inflection should wound her stricken heart.

“Yes, a widow! Oh, noble _Sans peur_! And you do not reproach me?”

“I do not. Come, now, tell me the whole story, love.”

“Lord Montressor, you know so much of my life that I need but use a few words to inform you all you require to be told of its fatal, secret history. You are already aware that, at the age of seven years, I was sent to Paris, and placed at Madame L’Orient’s _Pensionnat des Demoiselles_, an establishment of the highest reputation, where I remained until I was fifteen years of age. It was when I had but just completed my fourteenth year that Victoire L’Orient, the only son of my teacher, was presented to me by his mother—” Here the voice of Estelle broke down, and she paused as if unable to proceed. Her companion waited a little while, and then said, encouragingly:

“Speak freely, dear Stella.”

“I am sure, Lord Montressor, that I do not mean to endeavor to shift the blame from my own shoulders to those of others, but at this distance of time I see clearly that Victoire L’Orient was introduced to me by his mother with sinister views—to ensnare, in fact, the heart, and win the hand of the wealthy English heiress. Victoire was ten years my senior, handsome, accomplished, insinuating, and, since the truth must be revealed, unprincipled; though of his moral turpitude I had no suspicion until it was too late! too late!” Again the voice of Stella sank, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Compose yourself, dear love, and go on, that this may be finished, and your heart relieved.”

“Without seeming to do so, Madame L’Orient fostered our acquaintance into friendship, if friendship could be said to exist between the deceiver and the deceived—into intimacy at least. Looking back now, I cannot understand the spell of fascination that was woven around me. Enough, alas, that I thought I loved Victoire, and was drawn step by step, first into an admission of my sentiments toward him; then into an engagement, subject to my parent’s consent; and, finally, without appealing to them, into a clandestine marriage.”

Stella ceased and buried her face in her hands. Lord Montressor laid his hand on her head, and both were silent for a little while; after which, she resumed, in a voice of thrilling passion,—

“Oh, yet think, in judging me, how young I was, how inexperienced I was, how fatally influenced, in what intriguing hands, and then how quickly and bitterly I repented.”

“I do not _judge_ you, dear one; I only _wait_ to hear the end.”

“I am sure that while she was careful not to appear in the matter, Madame L’Orient, who was an accomplished intriguante, forwarded our marriage. Alas, before many months, I understood and felt, both how bitterly I had sinned and had been sinned against. I remained at school as before my marriage, as it was the decision of my husband and mother-in-law, who did not wish the reputation of her establishment to suffer, to keep the union a secret until after I should have finally left school and returned to England and my father’s house. My husband, who had lodgings near the Pensionnat, visited me at his own convenience rather than at mine. Oh, very soon indeed I discovered the worthlessness of the man who had ensnared my childish heart and hand! Would you believe of any man scarcely, such things as I am about to tell you of him?—not that I wish to reflect dishonor on the dead, but that I wish you, Lord Montressor, to know how soon and how terribly I expiated my sin. Victoire was addicted to inebriation, to gambling and licentiousness, and every species of dissipation and excess. These vices kept him always in want of money; and he not only seized and turned into cash my girlish trinkets, and appropriated all my pocket-money, but _abused_ me when I had no more to give him, bidding me write to my father for funds.”

“OH-H!” groaned Lord Montressor, with the energy of a man who strives hard to repress himself.

“I did as he bade me. I drew freely on my father, who always lectured me severely for my supposed extravagance, _without_ always honoring my supposed drafts; and when he did not,” continued Estelle, rising, standing before him, extending both her hands, and surveying her own beautiful figure, “this little form you cherish so tenderly, this slight frame, that was even smaller then, bore, in black and blue, the marks of his violence.”

“Oh-h!” once more groaned Lord Montressor, losing self-command, starting up, and pacing the floor. Then returning, he reseated Estelle, stood leaning over her chair, and asked under his breath:

“Was the creature left to die a natural death?”

Stella shook her head, saying:

“Patience, beloved! God had patience with him, why should not we? As for myself, my sufferings were a just retribution. The froward maiden and undutiful daughter was fitly punished. Young as I was I felt it so, and thus, with some grace of patience, I accepted it all—all, Montressor!”

Again, unable to proceed, she paused, and dropped her face upon her hands, he waiting silently. Presently she gathered firmness and proceeded:

“In a year from my sinful marriage, I became the mother of an infant girl. My swimming senses scarcely perceived the child, before all consciousness left me, and life was a blank for many weeks. When I returned to consciousness, I found myself at a hotel, in charge of my father and mother; but my husband and child—where were they?—how long had I been at the hotel?—and how much of my circumstances did my parents know? These questions soon forced themselves upon my mind, ruined my rest by day and night, and seriously retarded my recovery. I feared my father even more then than now; and I dared not risk a single inquiry upon the subjects of my anxiety. At last, I discovered that I had been ill, though not always unconscious, for eight weeks; that my parents had been with me only a few days, and that they were totally unsuspicious of my new relations as wife and mother. I dared not inform them. I waited restlessly, impatiently, for the appearance of my mother-in-law, who never came. At last, with caution, I inquired after Madame L’Orient. I was told that her establishment was broken up, and was recommended to be still, and refrain from exciting conversation. As I convalesced, I gradually learned the truth—very gradually, for had the knowledge come suddenly, I should not now be here, telling you the story: the terrible shock must have killed me,” she said, and shuddered from head to foot.

“Compose yourself, and proceed, dear Stella! You speak to one who sympathizes with every phase of your suffering.”

“Of my _punishment_!—that is the proper word.”

“Do not reproach yourself so severely, Stella; but proceed, my love.”

“Ah, how shall I go on! how shall I inform you of the horrors that came to my knowledge? I should have told you, that for a week before I was first taken ill, I missed Victoire, but believing he had gone upon one of his frequent pleasure excursions, and glad to be left for a few days in peace, I felt no uneasiness on account of his absence. After my recovery I learned that at that very time he was under arrest upon the charge of treason. And during the period of my long illness he had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. His punishment was afterward commuted to transportation to the penal colonies. He was then on his way to Algiers.

“His mother, who was seriously implicated in the same crime, had been examined, and for want of evidence against her, discharged. Notwithstanding her acquittal, the popular feeling was so hostile to Madame L’Orient, that she was not only compelled to break up her establishment, but to leave the neighborhood. After a great deal of difficulty, I contrived to secure a private interview with Madame, before she left the city and inquire the fate of my infant. ‘Dead and buried in the Cemetière des Innocens,’ was the answer I received. She had lived but an hour, and died about the same time that I had fallen into a state of insensibility. What more had I to do in Paris, or even in the world. My life seemed blighted, my heart broken, my doom sealed at fifteen years of age. My injured and unsuspicious parents, concerned for their daughter’s failing health and spirits, took me to the German baths, thence to Sicily, thence over Europe, and finally brought me home to England, in the faint hope that quietness and native air might do for me that which travel and change of scene had failed to do. In vain! there was no hope, or help for me in this world. My sorrow was deepened by the necessity of concealing its dreadful cause. I dared not confide that secret passage of my life to either of my parents. You know the uncompromising arrogance of Sir Parke, and the sensitive delicacy of Lady Morelle. Their only and cherished daughter the wife of a ——! The revelation would have killed my mother, would have driven my father mad! I bore my sorrow—my punishment in silence; but do you wonder at my deep, incurable melancholy? As a last resort, they took me up to London, presented me at Court, and introduced me into the whirl of fashionable life. My debut in society made what is called ‘a sensation,’—my career was, in common parlance, ‘successful.’ I had many ‘eligible’ suitors; perhaps the sadness that shrunk from observation and attention, was from its very strangeness attractive. At length you came, and saw and loved me, all unworthy as I was, and I soon perceived in you the master of my heart and life! But, oh! the unspeakable agony of feeling this, and feeling too, that I never, never, never could be yours! So, at the last day, feels the sinner who sees, at length, that for some fair poisonous apple of Sodom, unlawfully seized on earth, he has lost the kingdom of Heaven! _Do you still wonder at my deep, incurable melancholy?_ We parted I bore that sharp anguish, as I had borne all the rest, even as the just retribution of my sin!”

“My dear, dear Stella! you reproach yourself without measure.”

“When I recovered from the long, nervous fever into which that great trial had thrown me—to please my parents I re-entered society, and was followed, flattered, courted as before; but nothing would dissipate the gloom of my soul. At last, while in Berkely square, at my father’s breakfast table, I heard him read from the Daily Times, among other items of news, the account of the wreck of the French ship ‘_Le Duc D’Anjou_,’ on her passage from Algiers. Now the slightest circumstance relating to that Province had for me a terrible interest, and I listened as I should never have done had not the ship sailed from that coast. The last name on the list of the lost was that of Victoire L’Orient!”

“Great Heaven!”

“God forgive me! I thought not of the horrors of the shipwreck, the sufferings of the crew, or even of the loss of the poor men drowned with Victoire. I only felt my evil genius gone, the gloom and terror lifted from my life, and I swooned with the shock of a great deliverance!”

“I do not wonder, good Heaven!”

“When the reaction came, I knew how wrong had been this feeling; and to atone for it, and to pay respect to _death_, if not to the _dead_, I withdrew from society and retired to this place, where I remained in seclusion eighteen months, just as I should have done in mourning the decease of a near and honored relative. I brought down that copy of the Times, containing the account of the shipwreck, and have preserved it—here it is,” she said, lifting an old paper from a table near her. “Look at it—there is a note in parenthesis following the name of Victoire L’Orient—I mention it only as a providential confirmation of the identity of the man.”

Lord Montressor opened the paper, looked down the column until he came to the list of the lost, and to the last name—Victoire L’Orient, with the following annotation.

“This man, it may be remembered, was some years since convicted of a complicity in the treason of De Vil, attended with circumstances of a memorable character, and was sentenced to be transported for life to the convict colony of Algiers. He had lately received his pardon, and was on his way to France.”

“Why have you preserved this, Stella?” inquired Lord Montressor, when he had finished reading.

“I do not know—some strange instinct!—perhaps to prevent my fancying the account to be a mere dream. Well! at the end of my eighteen months of self-inflicted seclusion, I summoned you, dearest friend, to my side. You came, loyal heart! you came at once! I meant to have immediately revealed to you the secret story of my sin and punishment, and so, before you should have had time to commit yourself, left my fate in your hands. But that first interview was so sweet that I could not disturb its harmony! I said, ‘I will tell him to-morrow.’ Morning came, and we were so happy, I shrank from clouding our bright joy; I said, ‘I will tell him in the evening.’ Your very perfections frightened me from the task. Again and again I postponed the revelation, in the vain hope that another day I should have more courage to make it. Alas! day by day, the disclosure grew to seem more strange and difficult. At length as the day of our marriage drew near, each hour rendered the necessity of my confession more imminent, and the act of making it more terrible! Last Sunday I thought I would then tell you; but—I _could_ not do it! Yesterday I felt sure that I should inform you; but, the first attempted words suffocated me! The scene around swam before me!”

“Alas! did you so dread me, my gentle Stella?”

“This morning _all_ dreads vanished before one great fear!—the fear of presently standing before the Lord’s holy altar, to palm upon you as a maiden’s hand, the hand of the widow of Victoire L’Orient. This is my revelation, Lord Montressor,” she said, rising with a certain mournful dignity. “I sinned first and greatly, against my parents in contracting a secret and unauthorized marriage; and long and terribly have I expiated it! But I have sinned even more against your pure, noble nature, in keeping this from your knowledge since our engagement, and even up to this last hour! It has cost me much to make it now; but now, that all is said, I feel relieved and strengthened! You are my judge, Lord Montressor.”

“Dearest Stella,” he said, taking her hand, reseating her, and standing, leaning over her chair, “let me be now, as always, perfectly frank with you. First, let me repeat that your painful story has made no difference in my feelings and purposes toward you, nor, as a matter of course, in our present and future relations. I do not gainsay, dear Stella, that your premature marriage was a great wrong; but I remember that you were an inexperienced child in the hands of intriguing and insinuating people, with whom you were not prepared to cope! I do not either deny that your concealment of your previous marriage, first from your parents, and afterward from your affianced husband, was a greater wrong; but I can easily understand how, in the first case, the haughty severity of Sir Parke, and the sensitive pride of Lady Morelle, should alike have frightened you from making the revelation; and still better can I sympathize with your shrinking reluctance to confide such a secret to me; and feel how much more difficult every day of delay must have rendered such a confession; and through all, how your refined and sensitive mind, brooding day and night over your misfortune, should have come to exaggerate both the magnitude of the fault and the difficulty of concealing it; and, finally, my victorious Stella, I can appreciate the triumph of principle in your present disclosure. Come to my heart, sweet Stella!” he said, opening his arms and gathering her to his bosom.

“Not until this hour, dear Stella, have I fully won your heart,” he whispered, dropping his face caressingly upon the silky black ringlets of her bowed head—“not until this hour have I fully won your heart!”

“But now I am all your own. Oh, my lord! my lord!—all your own—heart, soul, and spirit!” she said, in a voice of thrilling tenderness. “I had that blighting secret, that I dared not lay on the strong breast of the father that gave me life, nor on the tender bosom of the mother that bore me, but which at last I confide to your own great heart, and you receive the trust, and gather me within the fold of your powerful arms, and have no word of bitter reproach for my sin, but only a tender compassion for my sufferings; no humbling pity for my weakness, but only a noble sympathy with my struggles, and praise for my late—too late victory!”

“Reproach for _you_, my wounded dove? my gentle, patient sufferer? Nay, rest on my bosom; rest sweetly here awhile,” he murmured, smoothing her hair with his hand.

“Oh, the blessed relief, the sweet, sweet repose, the measureless content, I find on this sustaining breast!” she breathed, in a deep sigh of deliverance and rest.

“Would for your own sake, beloved, that you had sooner laid the burden of your secret sorrow upon your promised husband’s faithful heart—that you might have sooner found the relief he can give you, gentle and beautiful Stella.”

“Beautiful! did you say, my lord? Would, indeed, that I were infinitely beautiful, that I possessed genius and accomplishments equal to that beauty, and wealth and power to match both, for your sake, Montressor; for I should say then as now,—‘all that I am and all that I have belong less to me than to my dear and honored lord! I am his own, his own! I am cradled in his heart! I live, breathe, think, love only in and from his great life.’”

“You are, indeed, sweet Stella, the heart of my heart!”

“Would your Stella were more worthy of you.”

“More worthy of me? Do not talk so, love! Women are queens, always too good, for men; and you of women, most queenly, and should not bate your state, to speak to your subject in this style,” said Lord Montressor.

“Woman should not reveal her heart so plainly even to him who possesses it! Is that your meaning, my lord, and is it so?—for I, you see, do not know! I only know intimately one woman—myself, and now I am not so much myself as you? Shall I practice reserve with _you_?”

“No, no, dearest; too long you have practiced reserve.”

“Well, that is over. I have laid my soul open to your view! I have shown you a sorrow that I dared not trust to father or mother; even as we let the holy eye of God see things which we conceal from our dearest friends.”

“But now your parents must be informed of all, dear Stella.”

“Oh! no, no, no! It would kill the one and craze the other,” exclaimed Estelle, white with terror. “No, no; none but your own kindly heart could bear the revelation!”

“Fear nothing, dear Stella. They need not be told just yet; with their feelings, the disclosure of such a story concerning their daughter, Miss Morelle, might indeed be attended with serious consequences. I shall wait until the law has invested me with the exclusive right to watch over your honor, peace and welfare, and to protect you, if need be, even against the severity of your father, and the reproaches of your mother, before I make the disclosure, and then, the story told them of Lady Montressor by the lips of her husband, who here pledges himself to bear her blameless and harmless through all—will come very much softened to their ears.”

“Ah, Heaven! Lord Montressor, will you do this?”

“It must be done, beloved! Your parents must know all; your life must be cleared and calmed. I take that task upon myself. Resign yourself to my charge; trust in me; lay your weary, young head on my breast, and let your spirit sleep if you will; for no harm can come to you in the shelter of my love!”

“Oh! you are so good and great! Would I were better and wiser for your sake! You should have an angel for a wife!”

Lord Montressor smiled.

“I do not aspire to an angel, or to any better or happier woman. I love you just so, with the mournful earth beauty in your eyes.”

The opening of the door startled them, and Lady Morelle entered.

She was a magnificent-looking woman—of a tall and finely-proportioned figure, and a haughty carriage, delicate aquiline features, with an expression of blended pride and fastidiousness, fair complexion, blue eyes, and light hair arranged in plain bandeaux. She wore a light blue brocade satin dress, and a mantilla of rich white lace. She entered, smiling proudly.

Lord Montressor rose to greet her.

“Good-morning, my lord, I hope the interview this most capricious of dear Stellas demanded, is at an end, for, whether it be or not, I must interrupt you. It is half-past eleven, and if there is a marriage to be solemnized to-day, it is full time we were at the church.”

“Our interview is concluded, madam! I am ready, and only waiting your ladyship’s convenience,” said Lord Montressor advancing an easy chair for the lady’s reception.

“Thank you, I do not wish to rest. Your attendants, my lord, are——”

“They are probably now waiting for me at the church, madam, where I will meet you a few minutes hence. _Au revoir_, dear Stella!” said his lordship, and lifting the hand of his promised bride to his lips, and then bowing to Lady Morelle, he left the room.

The lady rang for her daughter’s maid.

“I declare, Estelle, I never knew so strange a girl! Now what, possibly, could you have wanted to say to Montressor this morning?”

“I only wanted to put his heart to a last trial, dear mamma.”

“Your head is turned, I think!—but here comes Finette. Now stand up and have your robe smoothed, and your wreath and vail put on.”

At this moment the French dressing-maid, Finette, entered, and Estelle stood up before the cheval mirror, while the girl drew down the folds of her robe, and took up the virginal wreath of orange blossoms to set upon her head.

“Not that—not that, Finette! Open that box, it contains a coronet I have chosen for this occasion.”

The girl raised the lid of the box that her mistress had indicated, and drew thence a rich wreath of passion flowers.

“That is the wreath I shall wear, Finette.”

“Why, my dearest Estelle, how eccentric! Who ever heard of a bride wearing other than orange blossoms in her hair? Do, love, be reasonable!”

“Do, sweet mamma, indulge me on my marriage day and permit me even to be _un_reasonable in the trifling affair of choosing a wreath.”

“Well, well, as you please, you dear, eccentric creature! Lady Montressor will soon be in a position to give the law to fashion in all matters of taste, and it is easy to foresee that she will be an innovator!” said Lady Morelle, proudly and fondly, as she gazed upon her beautiful daughter.

And thus the wreath of passion flowers was placed upon her brow, the vail thrown over her head, and the toilet of the bride was complete.

“Come now, my love, let us go down,” said the lady, giving her arm to her daughter to conduct her from the room.

In five more minutes Estelle Morelle was handed into a close carriage, the three other seats of which were occupied by her father, mother, and first bridesmaid. This carriage was preceded by that of the Duchess of Graveminster, and that of Lord Dazzleright, and was followed by a barouche containing the four other bridesmaids, and by various coaches of the friends, relatives and acquaintances, of the bride’s family, who had been invited to attend her to the church. As the procession defiled down the grand avenue, the village men and maidens gathered on either side to see it pass, and children threw flowers in the road. The bell rung a joyous peal, that continued until the cortege reached the church, which was a small gothic building just beyond the Park gates. The yard was filled with carriages of almost every description, and among them was recognized the crimson and grey liveries of Lord Montressor. As the cortege entered the church-yard, Lord Montressor alighted, and stood waiting until the carriage of Sir Parke Morelle, drew up before the church door, when he went and received his bride as she descended, and bowing with reverential tenderness, drew her arm within his own, and preceded by the Duchess of Graveminster on the arm of Sir Parke Morelle, and then by Lady Morelle on that of Lord Dazzleright, and followed by the bridesmaids and groomsmen in pairs, entered the church. The pews and the side aisles were crowded to suffocation; and the beadle had enough to do to keep the centre aisle sufficiently clear to admit the passage of the bridal procession.

Amid all this assembly, one group, gathered into a remote and deeply shaded pew in the corner to the extreme left of the entrance, in their manifest desire to avoid observation, might, at any other time, have attracted notice. But now all eyes were fixed upon the entree of the procession. This group consisted of a middle-aged, dark-complexioned, mercurial little woman of foreign aspect, clothed in black; a young man, with a tall and well-proportioned figure, regular features, deeply-bronzed complexion and jet black hair and eyes, of somewhat sinister expression; an elderly, dignified, magisterial-looking gentleman, and lastly—of a policeman who seemed to be retained in the service of the party.

As the bridal train entered the church, the little swarthy woman quickly averted her head and let down her thick black vail, and the young man stooped out of sight, as if to pick up something from the floor. The magisterial-looking individual put on his spectacles, and regarded the train with an ambiguous half-smile; while the police-officer looked on with unconcealed curiosity. When they had passed the pew, the little restless foreign woman plucked at the sleeve of the young man and pointing to the procession now approaching the altar, exclaimed quickly, under her breath,—

“Look you, Victoire! Can you bear this, then?”

“No matter, Madame! I wait!” said the Frenchman with a wicked smile.

“Will you not stop this, then?”

“No, no Madame! I wait!”

“For why, you wait?”

“For that she _des_pise, she _ab_hor, she scorn me—the convict! Very well!—I make her to be also convict herself!” hissed the man between his closed teeth.

Meanwhile the bridal train proceeded up the aisle and formed before the altar in something like the following order—the old Duchess of Graveminster and Sir Parke Morelle, leading the way, filed off to the extreme right; Lady Morelle and Lord Dazzleright, following, passed off to the left; next came the bride and bridegroom who took their places in the centre; then their attendants, coming up in pairs, divided and formed on either side—the bridesmaids filling up the segment of the semicircle between the bride and her mother, and the groomsmen occupying the corresponding space between the bridegroom and his father-in-law.

The sun shining in rich, deep-toned glory through the gorgeously stained glass Gothic windows on either side the high altar, never fell upon a more imposing bridal circle. There was the bridegroom, with his tall, well set, kingly form, and most noble head and face, full of conscious power, and wisdom, and protective love; and the bride with her dark, bright, wondrous beauty and her matchless grace; and the stately bridemen and the fair bridemaidens.—

“Each a queen by virtue of her breast and brow;”

and there were the dignified Sir Parke, the regal Lord Morelle, the haughty old Duchess of Graveminster and the splendid Lord Dazzleright. And there within the altar rails before the aisle stood the venerable Bishop of Exeter, between two assistant clergymen. And all—congregation, companions, and officiating ministers, were regarding with looks of admiration, affection, or pride, the presence of the beautiful bride.

The Bishop opened the book. And every whisper was hushed, and every eye reverently dropped as the venerable prelate, in a solemn voice, pronounced the first words of the imposing ritual.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together, here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman, in holy matrimony; which is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among all men; and therefore is not to be entered into unadvisedly, or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. Into this holy state these two people present come now to be joined.

“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever, hold his peace.”

The Bishop now made the usual solemn pause, during which not a breath seemed drawn in the silent church.

Though had any one been sufficiently near that ill-omened group in the shadowy corner pew, they might have caught the deep, hurried whisper of the woman—

“Attend you, Victoire!—listen, then, my son!” And the hissing reply of the man—

“Yes, Madame!—but mon Dieu! I wait!”

Meanwhile the rites proceeded—the grave voice of the prelate was pronouncing the question—

“George Charles, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others keep thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live?”

The Bishop paused.

And the bridegroom, fixing his eyes in unutterable love upon the downcast, beautiful face of his bride, in a deep, proud, tender voice responded—“I will.”

Then the same question being put to her, she lifted her large eyes for an instant to his, and a glow of ineffable devotion suffused her beautiful, dark face as she too breathed the same vow.

At the next question—“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”—Sir Parke Morelle stepped forward, took the hand of his daughter and placed it in that of the Bishop who transferred it to the hand of the bridegroom Lord Montressor received the cherished gift reverently, tenderly, with a deep inclination of his noble head, and a thrilling pressure of his clasping hand.

Then followed the putting on of the ring, and then the prayers, the valedictory, and finally the nuptial benediction.

The imposing solemnities were over.

And friends gathered around with blessings; and then came in turn, the grave, earnest, tender, gay or gallant forms of congratulations—as the officiating ministers, the father, mother, bridemaids and bridemen pressed around with many kind wishes.

This occasioned some considerable delay, in the midst of which the ominous party in the dark corner pew might have been observed to steal out and retire from the church.

“Enough! enough!” at length smilingly said Sir Parke, sympathizing with the blushing embarrassment of the recipient of all these compliments, and taking her hand and placing it upon the arm of Lord Montressor, who drew it closely to his side, bowed around to his friends, and turned to lead his bride from the church—a performance more easily to be wished than accomplished; for the people were now pressing out of the pews, and the aisles were choked up with the crowd. Thus their progress from the altar to the door was an alternate step and pause—a sort of stop-march. And thus a delay of more than half an hour intervened between the moment of their receiving the nuptial benediction and that of their issuing from the church door. As the church, the yard was crowded with people of all classes, eager to see the bride pass.

The whole party, including the officiating Bishop and clergymen, were expected to return to Hyde Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast; after which, Lord and Lady Montressor were to set out for his lordship’s castle in Dorsetshire, where they intended to pass the honeymoon.

The church-yard was so crowded that it was with great difficulty and after much hindrance that Lord Montressor’s carriage could be driven up. And with his shrinking bride upon his arm, and her friends around, he waited before the church door, until it drew up, and one of the footmen alighted, let down the steps and opened the door.

His lordship then bowed to his friends, and was about to hand his lady into the carriage, when a policeman, pressing through the crowd, placed himself between the carriage door and the bridal pair, intercepting their further passage, while he respectfully inquired—

“Which of these ladies, here present, bears the name of Estelle L’Orient?”

“_No_ lady here bears that name; stand out of the way, sir,” said Lord Montressor, haughtily, while Estelle, with a half-suppressed cry, lowered her vail and leaned heavily upon his arm.

“Let us pass, sir!” repeated his lordship, sternly.

“Pardon me, my lord, if in the discharge of my duty I cannot obey your lordship,” answered the officer, who, in manners and address seemed much superior to his class.

“What mean you, then, sir?” gravely inquired Lord Montressor, while Estelle hid her face in the folds of her vail against his arm.

“My lord, I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Estelle L’Orient, and if I mistake not, this is the lady,” said the officer, indicating the bride by a respectful inclination of his head toward her.

“Yes! Mon Dieu, that is the woman!” exclaimed a shrill voice, coming from the little old dark and shriveled Frenchwoman, who stood at a short distance in the crowd.

“Eh! Mon Dieu, yes!—that is _my_ woman!—that is _my_ bride!—that is the wife of the felon!” exclaimed the vindictive looking Frenchman by her side, gesticulating the while like a madman.

A crowd of astonished faces now pressed closely upon the group, around the carriage door, before which stood the policeman. And through this crowd, as one having authority, now came Park Morelle, inquiring in haughty displeasure—

“What is the meaning of this delay? Good people, give way! My lord, in the name of Heaven put Lady Montressor into the carriage, and drive on! Let us get out of this! Why Montressor! Estelle! what the fiend is the meaning of all this?” exclaimed the baronet, perceiving now for the first time by the pale, corrugated brow of the bridegroom, the shuddering form and hidden face of the bride, the resolute bearing of the policeman, and the horrified looks of the people, that something—he guessed not what—was fearfully wrong.

“What is the meaning of all this? Montressor, why do you not speak?” he asked, in an agitated voice—when, turning haughtily upon the police-officer, he demanded.

“What is _your_ business here?”

“Excuse me, Sir Parke Morelle, I am here on duty.”

“_What_ duty, fellow?”

“I am charged with a warrant for the apprehension of one Estelle L’Orient.”

“WHOM?” frowningly demanded the baronet.

“One Estelle L’Orient—this lady.”

“Out of the way, fellow! You are drunk, and richly deserve to be sent to prison. There is no such person here. Out of the way, I say, or I shall give you in charge!” exclaimed the baronet, losing all patience.

“Pardon me, Sir Parke, but I must execute my warrant,” persisted the man; then stepping forward, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of the bride, he said:

“Estelle L’Orient, I arrest you in the king’s name; you are my prisoner.”

“_Sirrah!_” thundered Sir Parke, striding forward and striking off from his daughter’s shoulder the desecrating hand of the policeman: “Are you frantic?—have you the least idea of what sacrilege means?—do you know what you are about?”

“Perfectly well, Sir Park Morelle. I am about to take this lady into custody,” said the officer, approaching his prisoner.

“Begone, fellow, or by Heaven! mad or drunk, you shall dearly rue your mistake.”

“_Sir Parke Morelle mistakes_; but he will not resist his majesty’s warrant,” said the man, drawing the instrument from his pocket; and, while the crowd pressed closer around in amazement and wonder, Sir Parke stood the picture of incredulous astonishment and rage; and Lord Montressor, with corrugated brow and compressed lips, continued to support the form of Estelle, who now stood with clasped hands, white face, and stony eyes, gazing upon the figure of the Frenchman as upon that of a phantom raised from the dead—the policeman unfolded and read the warrant.

COUNTY OF DEVON.—To the Constable of Hyde and all other peace-officers in the said county of Devon:

Forasmuch as Gabrielle L’Orient, widow, now in this said county, hath this day made information and complaint upon oath before me, George Bannerman, one of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and for the said county, that Estelle L’Orient, of the said county, on this Thursday of the first instant, at the parish church of the parish of Hyde, feloniously intermarried with George Charles, Lord Viscount Montressor, in and during the life of her husband, Victoire L’Orient, now living in these realms—these are, therefore, to command you, in his majesty’s name forthwith to apprehend and bring before me, or some other of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and of the said county, the body of the said Estelle L’Orient, to answer unto the said complaint, and to be further dealt with according to law. Herein fail you not at your peril. Given under my hand and seal, this first day of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ——.

Signed, GEORGE BANNERMAN.

The officer finished the reading, folded the document, returned it to his breast-coat pocket, and stood for a while waiting. No one, who had not seen, could imagine the consternation that held the assembled crowd in a trance of breathless silence. Sir Parke Morelle was the first to break the fearful spell.

“MADAM!” he said, striding up and confronting his wretched daughter, whose conscious looks were the most alarming features in the case, “why do you not speak? If this is a conspiracy, expose it. Where is the wretch that has made this complaint?”

“Here, my lord! Behold me! I am that wretch. I depose—I witness, that Madam Estelle L’Orient is the wife of my son, Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” exclaimed the wicked-looking little French woman, whom Sir Parke now saw and recognized as the quondam governess of his daughter. Beginning to perceive the truth, the baronet turned upon his child and inquired, in a tone of suppressed fury—

“MADAM, answer! What foundation is there for this trumped-up story?”

“_It is true_,” said the wretched Estelle, letting her arms fall by her side, and her chin drop upon her breast, with a look of utter despair.

“Do your duty, officer. Remove your prisoner. Take the _feloness_ quickly out of my sight!” cried the baronet, nearly maddened by the shock that had so suddenly hurled his towering pride to the dust.

“Sir Parke! Sir Parke! in mercy, you will not abandon your child in her extremity,” pleaded Lord Montressor.

“By all the demons, sir, she is no child of mine! I renounce the wife of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” cried the baronet striding away.

“Sir Parke, for the love of God, _look on her_!” prayed Lord Montressor, laying his hand on the arm of the enraged father, and seeking to detain him.

“Release me, sir,” thundered the baronet, breaking from his clasp; “My carriage there, sirrahs! Where is Lady Morelle? Let her ladyship be summoned.”

“Lady Morelle has fainted, and has been conveyed into the church, my lord,” said the Duchess of Graveminster, who had remained standing in an attitude of stern and solemn haughtiness.

Sir Parke left orders for his carriage to come up, and then strode off in the direction of the church.

Lord Montressor sought to reassure the deserted and despairing woman at his side.

“Estelle, dear, suffering one, take comfort; all that a Christian man may do for you, in your extremity, shall be done by me; rely on me; I will never fail you.”

“Monsieur, the constable, look at that woman! She has no right to be on the arm of my lord. Do your duty! arrest her!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with vindictive haste.

“I fear I must not long delay, my lord,” interrupted the policeman, respectfully.

“One moment, officer, if you please. Madam, for the love of the Saviour, sustain this poor, stricken one, until I send a clergyman to attend her. Estelle, dearest, I must, for your own sake, leave you now. I go to send you proper aid. I will see you again at the magistrate’s—until then, farewell,” said Lord Montressor, gently withdrawing his sustaining arm, and laying her upon the half-repellant, haughty bosom of the Duchess of Graveminster.

“God forever bless you, my lord. Whatever becomes of poor Estelle, may God forever love and bless you!” murmured the poor girl, waving him adieu.

Lord Montressor hastened into the church and into the vestry, where the Bishop and assistant clergymen were taking off their robes.

“My lord, _what_ has happened?” exclaimed the venerable prelate, almost appalled by the pale and haggard countenance and hurried and anxious manner of his lordship; while the two assistant clergymen approached and _looked_ the wonder they forbore to speak.

Lord Montressor hastily and briefly related all that had passed; together with the history of the wretched marriage into which Estelle, while a child at school, had been inveigled by the designing governess and her unprincipled son, with the account of the crime, trial, conviction, and transportation of Victoire, the long separation, and the final published report of his loss in the wreck of ‘_Le Duc D’Anjou_,’ three years since.

“The warrant for her arrest was issued by Sir George Bannerman, a bitter enemy of her father. He must have taken the deposition and issued the warrant immediately after the marriage ceremony was concluded. He must have been on the premises for that purpose; for I saw his carriage leaving the church,” said his lordship.

“I saw Sir George himself _in_ the church,” said the Reverend Mr. Oldfield, the elder of the two clergymen.

“_In_ the church! then he witnessed the marriage, heard the solemn adjuration at its commencement, might have spoken, stopped the proceedings, and saved this most unhappy of ladies from her present misfortunes! Any but a malignant enemy would have interfered to save her! The case will probably go to trial and come up at the next assizes; but there I am sure an action cannot be successfully sustained against her. And if the course of this magistrate has been as I suspect, that fact will be a powerful weapon in the hands of her counsel; and will also go far to hurl Sir George Bannerman himself, from his seat on the bench. Meanwhile, however, the father of Estelle has abandoned her to her fate. I, unhappily, through my late relations to her, am disabled from directly protecting her, my known intervention would be far more likely to injure than to benefit her cause; but you, reverened sirs,” continued his lordship, turning toward the two assistant clergymen, “you, Mr. Oldfield and Mr. Trevor, are friends of her family. Your age, holy calling, and position, all constitute the most proper and desirable persons to stand in the relation of protectors to this most unfortunate lady. Go with her to the magistrate’s—will you not, sirs?”

The two ministers spoke together for an instant, and then Mr. Oldfield answered for both—

“Most willingly will we attend the lady, my lord; but had we not best object to a hearing before Sir George Bannerman, and demand that she be taken before some other and impartial justice of the peace?”

“Upon the whole, _no_ sir; it will make little difference, in the end, and I think it best that this man should be allowed to show his hand,” said Lord Montressor; then tearing a leaf from a blank book on the table, writing a check for a thousand pounds on the bank of Exeter, and handing it to Mr. Oldfield, he continued, “Offer bail to any amount for her appearance at court; and then, Mr. Oldfield, I am sure that you will take this poor, shorn lamb to your fold, put her under the care of your excellent lady, and bid her trust God with the result.”

“We will certainly do all that can possibly be done for this poor child in her extremity; but—put up your check, my dear lord, for though you are her truest friend, it is not expedient that this good office should emanate from you,” said the venerable man.

“I believe you are right, sir; but what then can be done, since her father abandons her?”

Again the two clergymen conversed apart, and then Mr. Trevor spoke—

“We are not bankers, my lord, it is true; but we can afford to risk some hundred pounds apiece.”

“Risk, sir! There will be no risk—do you know Estelle, and imagine that she will not duly present herself for trial?”

“Certainly not—certainly not, my dear lord! The word was unhappily chosen. I meant merely that we might be held _responsible_ for so much money.”

“Go now, dear sirs, to that poor girl, lest the Duchess of Graveminster think her ermine irremediably tarnished by holding any longer that blighted head upon her bosom. I will meet you at the magistrate’s.”

“Use my carriage, if no other is provided, Oldfield; I will find a seat in Lord Montressor’s, and be in attendance also,” said the kind-hearted bishop, whose sympathies had been strongly moved. The reverened gentleman thanked the bishop, and left the church in search of their unhappy charge. On reaching the yard they found that every carriage, with the exception of that of Lord Montressor and that of the Bishop of Exeter, had left the scene. Yes—parents, friends, acquaintances, bridemaids and bridemen, all had fled the place as though the plague were there. The Duchess of Graveminster had departed with the rest.

Estelle was left unsustained, leaning for support against the upright headstone of an humble grave, and guarded by the policeman.

The pitying clergyman approached her, laid his hand upon her bowed head, and gently said—

“Be not so utterly cast down, my child; raise your heart to Him who—when ‘all forsook him and fled,’ remained unshaken in his trust of his Father.”

But the grief-stunned girl seemed not to hear, or see, or be in any way conscious of the presence of the speaker; she remained wrapped in her white robe and vail, leaning over the tombstone, perfectly motionless, and might have seemed some risen ghost or descended spirit standing at the grave.

“Come, come, my child, look up, give me your hand, let me put you into the carriage; there are some necessary forms to be gone through, and then you are free; and you are to go home with me to Bloomingdale parsonage, for a visit, until your father feels better and comes for you, as he will.”

But still she neither moved, nor spoke, and might have seemed less a woman, or a spirit, than some draped marble statue.

“Come, my lamb, come,” pursued Mr. Oldfield, taking her cold and passive hand, drawing it within his arm, and leading her away.

Very docilely she suffered herself to be placed in the carriage, when Mr. Oldfield entered and took the seat beside her, and Mr. Trevor followed, and placed himself on the front cushion. The policeman mounted the box beside the coachman, and the carriage was driven off. Almost immediately after, the Bishop on Exeter and Lord Montressor entered the carriage of the latter, and followed on the same road.