CHAPTER II.

THE ARRESTED BRIDE.

“Her look composed, and steady eye, Bespoke a matchless constancy; And there she stood, so calm and pale, That, but her breathing did not fail, And motion slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted That neither sense, nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax Carved to the very life, was there; So still she was, so pale, so fair.”—_Scott._

A rapid drive of an hour’s length, brought the party to Horsford, the seat of Sir George Bannerman, knight, the magistrate who had issued the warrant.

A winding avenue led from the highway to the hall.

On arriving before the main entrance, the foremost carriage drove up, and the footman sprang down from behind, opened the door and let down the steps, while the policeman got off the box and stood guard.

Mr. Oldfield alighted first, and handed out Estelle, who, pale as death, with her face still wrapped in her bridal vail, mechanically permitted herself to be conducted by her aged friend up the broad marble stairs leading into the hall.

They were preceded by the policeman, who knocked at the door, which was opened by a footman in attendance; while just within, the fat, gouty-looking porter, sat indolently in his arm-chair, with gold spectacles on his nose, reading the “Times.”

The policeman telegraphed to this dignitary, who, without leaving his seat, or raising his eyes from his paper, answered—

“In the library. Here, John, show this party up.”

The footman who had admitted them, now came forward, indicated his forehead with his forefinger, by way of obeisance to the lady and the clergymen, beckoned the officer, and led the way up the broad oaken stairs to a long gallery above, at the extreme end of which was the door of the library, where the preliminary examination was to be conducted. Opening this door, the man announced—

“P’lice an’ pris’ners y’ honor,” admitted them, closed the door, and retired.

The party found themselves in a rich, antique, and handsomely-furnished library, the walls of which were alternately lighted with stained glass gothic windows, and lined with richly wrought and well-filled book-cases.

At the upper extremity of this room, behind a long table, covered with a green cloth, sat Sir George Bannerman; on his right hand was his secretary, and near the end of the table, on the same side, were gathered Madame L’Orient, Monsieur Victoire, and a little French Abbe. Near the magistrate stood Lord Dazzleright.

As the venerable clergyman advanced, supporting his fragile charge, Sir George arose, gravely acknowledged their presence by a slight bow, and sat down again.

The officer preceding the party, laid his warrant before the magistrate, and said—

“Here is the prisoner, your worship,” bowed, and retired a step or two.

Sir George took up the document, and while he was looking over it in silence, the library door was once more opened, and—

“His lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, and Lord Montressor, to attend the examination,” were announced.

They entered gravely, bowed in silence to Sir George Bannerman, who acknowledged their salutation by a momentary lifting of his eyes and a nod, and then took their stand upon the side near Lord Dazzleright.

“Was this _well_ done, Sir George Bannerman?” vehemently inquired Mr. Oldfield.

“To what do you allude, sir?” asked the knight, without lifting his glance from the document in his hand.

“I allude to the arrest of the lady.”

“Reverend sir, one of your excellent judgment should know that the _law_, no more than the _gospel_, is a ‘respecter of persons.’”

“Assuredly not, Sir George! but you were in the church at the time this illegal marriage took place; you heard the solemn adjuration of the Lord Bishop officiating, that—if any man there present knew cause why the contracting parties should not be joined in matrimony, he should then and there declare it. Sir, you sat there, with this unhappy lady’s husband by your side, and heard this solemn adjuration, and you did not speak! But speedily after the accomplishment of the act, you issued the warrant for the lady’s arrest. Sir George Bannerman, I ask you once more, _was_ this act, on the part of a Christian, a gentleman, and a magistrate, _well done_?”

“Sir, a distinguished professor of the orthodox principles of human free agency like yourself, should understand that the _law_, no more than the _gospel_, interferes arbitrarily to prevent crime; that it can only judge and punish; but sir, we lose time; will you have the kindness to stand aside and let me see the prisoner?”

With a deep-drawn sigh, bearing to Heaven an earnest prayer for the despairing one at his side, the good clergyman withdrew a step, and Estelle was left standing unsupported before the green table.

“Madam, will you be kind enough to unvail?” said the magistrate.

Estelle turned aside her vail, revealing a face so deathly in its hue that they who beheld it suddenly blanched in sympathy.

“Your name, Madam, is Estelle L’Orient?”

She bowed assent.

The magistrate then took up the warrant for her arrest, read it aloud to her, replaced it on the table, and addressing her, said,

“Estelle L’Orient, you are herein charged, under oath, by Madame Gabrielle L’Orient, here present, with having this day, at the parish church of Hyde, in and during the life of your husband, Victoire L’Orient, now living in these realms, feloniously intermarried with George Charles, Viscount Montressor, said marriage constituting an act of bigamy, against the peace and dignity of the king’s majesty, and punishable by transportation, according to the statute in such case made and provided. What have you to say to this charge?”

“Nothing here, sir;—much perhaps hereafter,” answered the deep plaintive voice of the accused.

“Sir George Bannerman,” said Lord Dazzleright, coming to the side of the lady, “I stand here as the counsel of Lady Montressor, if she will accept my services, and I take exception to the question put to her, as improper.”

“Madam, do you retain Lord Dazzleright?” demanded the magistrate.

“I do, sir.”

“You are then the counsel of Estelle L’Orient?”

“I am the counsel of Lady Montressor.”

“_Ah! my lord! do not breathe that stainless name here!_ I have no claim to it! Thank God for this, at least—that whatever happens, I can bring no reproach upon that honored name! for it is not mine! I am poor Estelle L’Orient, and yonder name is really my owner,” said the thrilling passionate voice of the lady, as she shuddered and averted her head.

“Hush! hush my child! You must really keep silence, and permit me to conduct this case. I shall deny their charges _ab initio_ and _in toto_, as we lawyers say. You are no more the legal wife of yonder vagrant than you are of——well let that pass! You are the Viscountess Montressor.”

“_Oh! no, no, no!_ great heaven, no! that sacred name—Lord Montressor’s spotless name—must be kept holy from the sorrow and shame that is gathering darkly over that of poor Estelle L’Orient.”

While this low and hurried conversation was going on between the counsel and his client, the magistrate sat back in his chair, waiting. Seeing them at length silent, he leaned forward and inquired of the counsel if they were ready to hear the charge.

“We are ready,” replied Lord Dazzleright.

“Then I will proceed to call the witnesses—Madame Gabrielle L’Orient will please to take the stand.”

The small, deep set, quick, black eyes of the little old Frenchwoman, scintillated with cunning malignity, as she came forward. The oath was duly administered and she commenced her deposition. First, she identified the accused as Estelle, the wife of Victoire L’Orient, and then in polished French but broken English she testified to having witnessed the marriage of her son, Victoire L’Orient, and her pupil, Estelle Morelle, in the church of St. Etienne, at Paris, on the 13th day of November, 18—: and, further, to the fact of the said Victoire and Estelle having lived together as man and wife, for the period of one year, under her roof, at No. 31 Rue St. Genevieve, Paris.

While this witness was giving in her evidence, Lord Dazzleright whispered his client,

“If there is any point in her testimony, to which you take exception, let me know it!”

“The marriage was a private one, and unless I was grossly deceived, she knew nothing of it at the time,” murmured Estelle, struggling against the death-like despair that threatened the annihilation of her faculties.

“One moment, if you please,” said Lord Dazzleright, as the witness was about to retire from her position, “this alleged marriage is understood to have been a strictly private one—how then did it happen, Madame, that you witnessed it?”

“I suspect the children of their intention. I follow, I pursue, I enter the chapel of St. Etienne. I witness the marriage.”

No cross-questioning could drive the woman from this point; but on the contrary, only tended to consolidate and confirm her in her loose-jointed evidence.

The next witness called was the little old French priest, who, having been duly sworn, first identified the accused, and then testified to having both witnessed and assisted at the marriage of Estelle Morelle and Victoire L’Orient, which was solemnized on the 13th of November, 18—, by the Abbe Pierre Leroux, in the church of St. Etienne, Paris.

The cross-questioning of this witness elicited nothing to throw discredit upon his testimony.

The certificate was then exhibited. And the fact of the first marriage seemed established. The next proceeding was to prove the identity of Victoire L’Orient, as the living husband, and consequently as the legal obstacle to the second nuptial. This was easily done by the testimony of the mother and the priest. The next and final fact to establish, on the part of the prosecution, was that of the second and so called felonious marriage, that day celebrated at the parish church of Hyde. This was formally proved by the testimony of the same witnesses.

Then Lord Dazzleright, with a smile of encouragement, stooped and spoke aside to his client.

“Reassure yourself, Lady Montressor! This was from first to last a series of conspiracies; I shall easily overthrow them with their own weapons; hoist these engineers with their own petard——”

Then turning to the magistrate, his smile of benevolence changed to one of flashing scorn, as he said,—

“We might commence, your worship, by contesting the legality of these proceedings, from the moment of the issuing of the warrant, in itself informal, as not containing the name of the accused, which is not Estelle L’Orient, but Estelle Viscountess Montressor. But we choose to rest our defense, not upon a mere verbal form, but on the deepest and firmest foundations of justice and truth. We shall therefore commence by denying _ab initio_ and _in toto_ the validity of the alleged marriage, said to have taken place in the chapel of St. Etienne, in the city of Paris, showing the same to have been a felonious act, the result of a conspiracy, in which my client was not principal or party, but victim—a crime punishable by the statute laws of France with fine and imprisonment. I shall show that, dating from the edict of the _14th of Henry II._, the statute laws of France forbid the marriage of a minor without the knowledge and consent of her parents or guardians, and vacate such marriage, so contracted, as illegal, invalid, and of none effect.”[1]

Footnote 1:

In the old chronicle of the Kings of France from Pharamond to Henri Quatre, written by the Sieur de Mezerai, occurs this paragraph, which is curious as the origin of the statute affecting the marriage of minors in France. The date is 1557 of our Lord, and 10 of the reign of Henry II.

“One cannot too often, or in too large characters, make mention of a couple of Edicts which were made this year: The one, to retrench the abuses of Clandestine Marriage, vacated all Marriages made by the Children of any Family without the consent of their Father and Mother, unless the Sons when they contracted were above Thirty years of Age and the Daughters above Five and Twenty. And to put the stronger curb on the amorous fancies of young, giddy People, they added the penalty of Disinheritance. The particular Interest of the Constable (De Montmorenci) procured this Edict. His eldest son had engaged himself with the Damoiselle De Pienne, a very beautiful Woman and of a good House, by verbal Contract: the Father desired to disengage him from her, to match him with the King’s natural daughter, the Widow of Horace Farnese.”

It is not our intention to follow the “learned counsel” minutely through all his argument, in which he displayed much zeal, legal lore, ingenuity and tact, and by which he temporarily effected, in the feelings and sentiments of all his hearers, with the exception of the prosecuting party, a powerful revulsion in favor of the accused. He exposed without mercy all the intriguing arts by which this designing French governess and her unprincipled son had conspired to inveigle their pupil, then a mere child, into a clandestine marriage, by which they hoped eventually to enjoy her immense wealth. He dwelt upon the moral turpitude of that treacherous teacher in having thus betrayed the sacred trust reposed in her by the parents of the child confided to her care. He said that the criminal arts of this intriguing mother and son should avail them nothing, either in shape of profit or vengeance. And he concluded by concentrating an immense mass of law, testimony and precedence upon the point that this _quasi_ marriage into which they had conspired to entrap their pupil, was, without the knowledge and consent of the parents or guardians of the child-bride, null, ‘void’, invalid, and therefore could not form a legal obstacle to the validity of the real and authorized marriage that day solemnized at the parish church at Hyde. He then required the discharge of his client from custody, and sat down.

Sir George Bannerman acknowledged the conclusion of his argument by a nod, and turned his face toward the witnesses for the prosecution as if to express himself ready to hear any thing they might have to advance against this. The prosecuting party had no counsel, but in the absence of a better lawyer, Madame L’Orient proved in her own person, despite her sex and her broken English, an “indifferent good,” or at least very shrewd advocate. And it was the shrill voice of the little yellow, shriveled, and beady eyed old French woman, that replied to the polished Lord Dazzleright.

She prayed Monsieur the Magistrate to remind himself that the _statement_ that Mademoiselle Estelle Morelle had been married to Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, without the knowledge and consent of her parents, was only an _assumption_ which required proof, while on the contrary, the _fact_ that this marriage between Monsieur Victoire and Mademoiselle Estelle had been celebrated with the knowledge and consent, and in the presence of Mademoiselle’s _guardian_, was already proved, was established, was unquestioned; for that she herself, Madame Gabrielle L’Orient, in her capacity of governess and teacher, had borne the relation of guardian to Mademoiselle Morelle. And as guardian of Mademoiselle, her presence at the marriage of Mademoiselle was all that was needed to make that marriage a legal transaction.

Having given this testimony, the vindictive little woman—her black eyes scintillating in triumph—sat down.

Lord Dazzleright arose and scornfully disclaimed the protestations of Madame L’Orient, utterly denying that her office of teacher could have invested her, for a moment, with the rights of legal guardianship over her pupil.

Madame replied that she was not only teacher, but sole custodian, governess and guardian of Mademoiselle for many years.

Here commenced a discussion upon this subject, ended at last by the magistrate, whom it was easy to suspect of a leaning on the side of the prosecution, and who now said—

“This particular point is a matter for the adjudication of their lordships the judges at the assizes. Has the defense any thing further to urge?”

“Yes—for though you choose to consider the illegality of the first marriage a questionable matter—nay, though you should decide to hold it a legal and binding transaction, yet—we have much to advance, why my client should not be held to answer to the grave charges upon which she stands before your worship. The English law, as also the law of all Christian nations, very righteously constitutes the _intention_ the vital part of the crime; now that my client had not the faintest shadow of _intention_ or purpose to violate the statute by her second, and as we hold it to be, her _only_ real marriage—is easy of proof. Two years ago there was a published account of the death of this man, upon the occasion of the wreck of the _Duc D’Anjou_. This account was translated from the _Courrier de France_ into the daily Times, a copy of which I have just received from Lord Montressor, and have the honor of laying before your worship,” said Lord Dazzleright, drawing the paper from his pocket and placing it upon the table before the magistrate, who took it up and read, while the advocate proceeded—

“My client saw this announcement, and believing herself to be the legal widow of this man, retired from society and remained in seclusion some eighteen months; at the end of which time only, she accepted the addresses of Lord Montressor, to whom she was this morning espoused as you have learned.”

“But Monsieur the Magistrate! but Monsieur! I pen—I indite—I write much—many letters to Madame Victoire L’Orient! I advise—I inform her of the life of my son, her husband!” here vehemently interrupted the mercurial little Frenchwoman.

“Madame, you are disorderly and will consult your best interests by being quiet,” said the magistrate. Then addressing the counsel for the defense, he said—“This point also is one for the adjudgment of their lordships.”

There was a short pause, at the end of which the magistrate inquired—

“Has the defense any thing further to advance?”

“The defense has nothing further to advance _here_ and _now_,” replied Lord Dazzleright, with a peculiar emphasis.

“Then, Madam,” said the magistrate, addressing Estelle, “I consider this a case for court, and I shall therefore bind you over for trial to answer the charge of bigamy, at the next assizes to be holden at the city of Exeter.”

The pale and drooping girl who had remained all this time with her face bowed and hidden upon her hands in the folds of her bridal vail, now raised her eyes in wild affright, looking so much like an amazed and terrified child in the grasp of some horrible power, that the good clergyman, Mr. Oldfield, hastened to her side and stooped to say—

“It is but a form, my child. No action can be successfully sustained against you. Trust in God, and take courage.”

“Have you bail?” inquired Sir George Bannerman, who had just been giving some private directions to his secretary.

Estelle shook her head—poor girl, she did not fairly understand the purport of the question.

“Lady Montressor _has_ bail, your worship. The Reverend Mr. Oldfield and the Reverend Mr. Trevor stand ready to enter into a recognizance with her, or rather with her husband, Lord Montressor, for her appearance at court,” said Lord Dazzleright.

The magistrate turned to direct his secretary to fill out the proper forms. And while that functionary was busily scribbling, Estelle turned to Lord Dazzleright pleading,

“For the love of the Saviour, my lord! do not, oh! do not continue to drag the spotless name of Montressor through the mire of my misery! I would rather,—oh! far rather, that conviction should come with all its train of horrors for me, than that I should be saved, at the expense of one speck upon that stainless name.”

Without replying to her prayer, the advocate, turning toward Lord Montressor, said—

“Will your lordship be so good as to come and speak to this lady? you may be able to bring her to reason.”

Lord Montressor, who had heard or divined the purport of Estelle’s plaintive petition, and who desired nothing more than the opportunity of reassuring her, now came to her side and said,

“Estelle, my beloved, look up! I hold you as my dear and honored wife, in whose cause it is both my duty and inclination to risk, if needed, life and fortune, and sacred honor. Estelle, beloved! you know that Baron Dazzleright is at this time esteemed the most eminent lawyer in the kingdom. His legal opinion is considered of the very first importance. He holds the secret marriage into which you, as an infant, were entrapped, ten years since, to be perfectly void; and, on the other hand, the marriage solemnized between us this day, to be perfectly valid. His opinion upon the validity of our marriage, supported by the authorities he adduces, and the developments of the last two hours, has decided my course. I stand upon the legality of the ceremony this day performed in the church of Hyde; I claim the rights of a husband to protect and shelter you; and here pledge my life if needful, my fortune, my unblemished name and sacred honor to bear you blameless through, the severe ordeal. Therefore, _Lady Montressor_, do not again seek to cast off the support that is most righteously your own, nor the honorable name that does not deserve repudiation at your hands. Remember, that it is your _husband_ who requires this of you!”

Lord Montressor spoke with an air of beautifully blended deference, tenderness, and dignity, almost impossible to resist.

Lord Dazzleright’s fine face beamed with sympathetic admiration—and clasping the hand of the noble speaker, he said—

“God bless you, Lord Montressor, for you are very right! and if there is a man—peer, or prince—in the empire who could take, unquestioned, the position that you now take and discharge with delicacy and discretion, its difficult duties, that man is your lordship. God bless you?”

But all this while Estelle, with her clasped hands hanging down, her head drooped upon her breast, and her eyes lowered to the ground, remained in mournful silence. Nor did she once change her position, or look up, or speak, until the magistrate called the two sureties to sign the recognizance that was now ready. The two clergymen advanced to the table. Lord Dazzleright also followed, and she was left standing alone, or guarded, as it were, by Lord Montressor.

“Has my Stella no word or glance for me?” he inquired.

“Oh! my Lord—my lord—do you not _know_ then that poor Estelle’s soul is at your feet, in acknowledgment of your matchless constancy! But, Lord Montressor, it must not be as you have said. I may not lean upon your noble strength, nor bear your honored name, and will not, my lord—_will not_,” said Estelle, with mournful dignity.

“Does my dearest Stella, my gentle _bride_,—with all her graces,—lack the lovely grace of submission?”

“Poor Estelle, your _servant_, my lord, possesses with all her faults and weaknesses, the capacity and strength to suffer alone, alone! rather than drag one whom she honors down to share her degradation.”

“Your signature is wanted to this document, madam,” said Sir George Bannerman, addressing the prisoner.

“Remain here, dear Estelle. I shall sign that instrument in your behalf,” said Lord Montressor, leaving her side and advancing to the table.

“Lord Montressor will enter into a recognizance with Messieurs Oldfield and Trevor, on the part of his wife,” said Baron Dazzleright.

“It will not do. The prisoner must sign for herself,” said the magistrate.

“Be it so, then. Estelle—Lady Montressor—if you have any regard for me, sign only the name that I have this day bestowed upon you,” whispered Lord Montressor, as he led her forward to the table.

“Lady Montressor, I add my voice to his lordship’s, and do beseech you, for the sake of all who love you, to comply,” said the Baron.

Estelle turned upon Lord Montressor a smile, full of holy self-renunciation, took the pen, and with a firm hand signed the paper.

Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright, and the two clergymen bent eagerly forward to read the signature. It was—ESTELLE L’ORIENT.

“Oh, child, child! Why have you written thus?” questioned Lord Montressor, with a look of distress.

“This girl will ruin her own cause,” said Lord Dazzleright, in a tone of vexation.

“Yes, my lords, she _will_ ruin her own cause rather than insure it at the expense of the noble and the good. I am poor, lost Estelle, wife of Victoire L’Orient, and have not the slightest claim even upon the Viscount Montressor’s countenance—to say nothing of his noble name.”

“We will see about that, my fair fanatic,” said the Baron.

As it was now very late in the afternoon, and the setting sun was shining aslant the sombre library wall, and as Sir George Bannerman announced the sitting at end, and betrayed symptoms of impatience to be gone, the parties,—both prosecutors and defendants, prepared to retire.

“You will go with me to Bloomingdale, my child, and remain as long as your friends can spare you. Mrs. Oldfield will be very—ahem!—will do every thing she possibly can to prove her affection and respect for you, and to make your sojourn in our humble home as comfortable and agreeable as circumstances will admit, my dear,” said old Mr. Oldfield to his protege.

“We thank you very sincerely for your offered hospitality, reverend sir; but since taking legal advice my plans are again changed—we shall adhere to the first arrangement, which was, that Lady Montressor and myself should go down to Dorset and spend a month at our castle of Montressor,” said the Viscount, with calm emphasis.

“Your lordship doubtless best knows the just and proper grounds of your action,” said the venerable man, bowing gravely, but looking, withal, so uneasy, that Lord Montressor beckoned the baron to his side, and said:

“Lord Dazzleright, will you be good enough to inform these gentlemen whom you consider to be the legal protector of this lady?”

“Unquestionably, reverend sirs, I hold the only legal protector and proper custodian of this lady to be her husband, the Lord Viscount Montressor.”

“But,” said the old clergymen, hesitatingly, “there is _another_ who claims that relation to this lady, and whose claims the magistrate, however unjustly, certainly favors.”

“And whose claims to any thing else but transportation will certainly be set aside by the courts,” said the baron.

“But in the mean time, for the lady’s own sake, had she not better remain with me, or some other friend, until the decision of the courts has confirmed her position?” pleaded Mr. Oldfield.

“Decidedly not, sir; it would argue a doubt of her position—a position upon the assuredness and stability of which I am willing to stake my reputation. As the legal adviser of Lady Montressor, I certainly counsel her ladyship to place herself under the powerful protection of her husband, and accompany him to Montressor Castle, to pass the time until the meeting of the Judges.”

“Come, my love, you hear what the baron says. It is getting late. Take leave of your friends, and permit me to hand you into the carriage which waits, and drive to your father’s house, where we will pass the night, and since to-morrow morning we will set out for Dorset,” said Lord Montressor, who was very anxious to remove his bride from the scene.

“My father! Ah, Lord Montressor, do you deem that in all respects, Sir Parke Morelle resembles _you_! My father will never look upon my face again, were that look needed to save my soul alive. Nay, best and most honored my lord, I _dare_ not cross my father’s threshold, and I _will_ not cross my lord’s. If ever a Lady Montressor sets foot within Montressor Castle, she will not first have borne the branded name of Estelle L’Orient. Farewell, my lord. I repeat now, what I said before, whatever may finally become of poor Estelle, may God forever bless and love you, Lord Montressor,” she said, bowing her forehead for a moment upon his hand that she had clasped between her own; and then releasing it, and turning away, she addressed the old minister, saying gently:

“I am at your disposal, Mr. Oldfield, if indeed, you still offer the shelter of your roof to one so lost as I am.”

“Gladly, my child, will I receive you; and let me tell you, Lady Montressor——”

“Ah, _you_ also, Mr. Oldfield; you will not spare my lord’s name,” interrupted Estelle.

“I very much suspect that it is your legal name, Lady Montressor. I have the greatest confidence in the opinions of Lord Dazzleright upon all _legal_ questions, though I am not sure I would be guided by his judgment in religious questions. Thus I think his opinion upon the validity of your marriage is likely to be quite right, while his advice to you, (founded upon that opinion), that you should accompany Lord Montressor to his castle in Dorset, there to abide the action of the court, I consider to be erroneous. Your own instincts, by the grace of God, have been a better guide. It is fitting that you should remain with Mrs. Oldfield, unless your parents claim you from us,” whispered the venerable man, drawing the arm of his protege within his own, and preparing to leave the room.

But Lord Montressor, who had remained a few minutes in mournful silence now spoke:

“Estelle, Lady Montressor, my wife, I have not said ‘farewell,’ and I disclaim your right thus to withdraw yourself from my lawful protection.”

“Lord Montressor, your poor servant, Estelle, who would lay down her life to serve your lordship, will not even at _your_ command, take one step to compromise or injure you! Once more, farewell, my lord. And our God forever love and bless you;” and with gentle firmness, Estelle lowered her vail and turned away.

Still Lord Montressor would have detained and expostulated with her, had not the Bishop of Exeter here come up and reasoned with his lordship.

“Lady Montressor does well. I have no doubt that Lord Dazzleright is _legally correct_, but he is _morally wrong_. I have no doubt that the marriage this day solemnized at Hyde is perfectly valid and indissoluble; but inasmuch as its validity is contested and remains to be confirmed by the action of the court, I declare it my opinion as a Christian minister that Lady Montressor is _religiously correct_ in withdrawing herself from the society of your lordship until such time as the court has adjudged her position; and that any other course would expose her ladyship to much censure.”

“I see, now, that you are entirely right, my Lord Bishop. Our wishes often blind us to what is expedient as well as to what is right. Although, indeed, I wished chiefly to consult her ladyship’s comfort and interests. I thank you, sir, that you have placed this subject in its proper light before me,” said Lord Montressor, frankly. Then going up to the bride, he said:

“Estelle, love, you go now with my full consent and approbation. Mr. Oldfield, it is I, her husband, who commits _Lady Montressor_ to your care,” he concluded, laying a marked emphasis upon the title with which he wished to invest her.

“Your lordship does well. And Lady Montressor shall receive the best possible care and attention while she sojourns under our humble roof,” replied the aged clergyman. And, bowing to the group, he led his charge from the library, through the long passage, down the broad stairs, across the wide hall to the entrance door, and thence down the steps to the carriage in which he placed her.

Meanwhile, Madame L’ Orient, Victoire, and the little fat Abbe, chattering like a trio of mammoth magpies, had got into their chaise and driven off.

Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright and the Bishop of Exeter, now came down the steps, entered the carriage of the viscount, and took the road to Hyde.

Mr. Trevor came out, and joined Mr. Oldfield and Lady Montressor, and their carriage was ordered to drive to Bloomfield.