CHAPTER III.
THE WORLD.
“’Tis an atrocious world!”—_Bulwer._
The news of the arrest of a bride at the altar, upon one of the gravest charges, and that bride, the beautiful and gifted Estelle Morelle, the star of fashion, the patroness of art and literature, the only daughter and heiress of the oldest and wealthiest baronet in the West of England, and the wife of one of the most distinguished among the young rising members of the house of Peers—fell like a thunderbolt upon the world, and spread like a conflagration through society. The story was everywhere received with incredulous amazement. The very enormity of the offense charged upon one so high and pure, stupefied belief. Even the reporters and “item” hunters of the press, feared, for a time, to deal directly with the question; and compromised the matter by obscure hints, and initials, instead of proper names. The most daring “sensationists” among the country editors were held in check, not only by the judicious limitation of the _license_ of the press which exists in England, but also by deep respect for, and perhaps awe of the principal parties concerned. For the characters and influence of Sir Park Morelle and of the Viscount Montressor were not only paramount in their respective counties of Devon and Dorset, but superior throughout the West of England.
The affair was canvassed with never flagging interest by people of every rank in society.
Upon the evening of the arrest, the large kitchen of the “Morelle Arms,” the Inn at Hyde, where small farmers, artizans and laborers most did “congregate,” was the scene of a considerable excitement upon the subject.
Along on benches placed each side a strong oaken table, sat perhaps a dozen rough-looking countrymen, clad in frieze coats or in smock frocks, and having clay pipes between their lips, and pewter pots of foaming “arf-’n-arf” before them. In an arm-chair at the head of the table, sat John Oates the baker, like a self-installed moderator of the feast, while at the foot, on an oaken stool, was perched Peter Barktree, under-gamekeeper from Horsford.
The fat little landlady was ever bustling in and out, between the kitchen and the adjoining bar, pausing now and then to catch a word of fresh news upon the all-engrossing subject which they were discussing with so much zest.
“Wot’s been done with un?” inquired Bob Sounds, the well-digger, of his next neighbor, Peter Barktree, who having come in from Horsford, might be expected to know something satisfactory.
“Ay mon, wot’s been done with un?” echoed all the others.
“_Oie_ dunnoa. How should _Oie_ know, only wot Bill Moines sayt? Bill Moines as works on the Yew-tree farrum at Horsford telled _Oie_ how zhe was zent off to the county jail. But _Oie_ dunnoa, how zhould _Oie_ knoa?” replied this specimen of either stupefaction or caution—it was hard to tell which.
“Humph! how zhould Bill Moines knoa, an he did wurruk on the Horsford farrum?” queried a doubter.
“_Oie_ dunnoa. He wur up to the great house and saw the carridges drive off mebbe; but I dunnoa; how zhould _Oie_ knoa?”
“Bill Moines loied, and Peter Barktree nows nowt on it. John Howe, the constable, toolde me as his worship had sent un off with his ruverence Muster Oldfield to stay tull the triall,” said the baker from the head of the table; and having taken the pipe quite out of his mouth to deliver this judgment, he now to save time immediately replaced it and smoked the faster.
“Wot time will the trial be!—Quardar Zezzions!”
“Noo, mon, (puff,) it’s a piece of wurruk for his ludship, (puff, puff,) and wull coome before the Zizes, (puff, puff, puff,) and they will be open next week,” replied the competent baker and dictator, smoking vigorously between his oracular words.
“And wot will they do with zhe!”
“Saying it goo agin un, zend un to the tre’d’ll.”[2]
Footnote 2:
Treadmill.
“Noo they wull not, nuther. It’s boogmy wot they zent Tom Sawyers acroos the water for. And they wull zend un to Bootany Bay coolonies,” said an artizan who had not before spoken.
“Oy, but they wull ne’er do the loike of that to zhe, Tom.”
“And whoy zhouldn’t they do it to zhe as well as to another, Bill Stiggins, if zhe _be_ hoigh quality? Boogmy’s boogmy the wurruld over; and wot’s boogmy fur poor folk is boogmy for quality folk, and noa summat else with a foiner name; and wot’s Boot’ny Bay for poor folk, zhould be Boot’ny Bay for quality folk, and noa soome foiner place loike Lunnun town,” persisted this determined radical.
“Oy, oy, Tom! zo we zay. Wot’s law for the poor zhould be law for the quality. A health to Tom Stallins! Here, Mother Higgins, more ale! Wot’s Boot’ny Bay for poor Tom Sawyers, zhoold be Boot’ny Bay for—”
“Hold your blaspheming tongues of ye! Botany Bay, indeed! They’d never send the likes of her ladyship to prison for one minute, no matter what she was left to her own devises to do, let alone Botany Bay. Is her blessed ladyship, Tom Sawyers, ye brutes? Shame on ye! And she the sweetest angel as ever went without wings. Shame on ye! And she educating all yer children, and clothing all yer old mothers, and lifting half the burden of life from your good-for-naught shoulders ever since she came home these ten years back—shame on ye! I say again, ye great, stupid, unfeeling brute beasts! to take her sweet name on yer lips!” exclaimed the little landlady, unable longer to repress her indignation at hearing her “angel’s” calamity thus freely discussed, and therefore quite ready to sacrifice her interests to her feelings, and offend every guest in her kitchen.
“Coom, coom, Mother Higgins, dooant thee get hoigh with us. Give us zoome more ale,” replied the baker, holding his pewter pot up for replenishment.
“Well, then, keep a civil tongue in yer heads, and know who ye’d be talking about, ye stupid loons, ye! That French frog-eater as the Evil One has sot on to pretend to her dear ladyship, has no more right to lift his eye to _her_ than old Bony has to the crown of England.” Speaking of “Bony” probably suggested battle, for the honest woman went on to say, “And more betoken, they do tell me how the Frenchman stole her from a boarding-school while she was a child; and if so be he should get her _now_, it would cause a war with France.”
“Chut, dame; wot do thee knoa aboot politics and war? and whoy should ’s majesty go to war aboot two yoong uns as doant know their own moinds? Speak wot thee knows on, dame,” said Tom Stallins.
“Oy, but the dame be roight! Master Stubbins, his ludship’s oon mon, says how his ludship, Lud Muntresser, do stick to it as the Frenchman had noo roight to coome here giving trooble; and his ludship wull stand by the lady, een noo that her oon fayther and moother hev cast un off, and more zhame for um,” said Mr. Stiggins.
“Ay will he, I’ll warrant ye! And a right noble gentleman he is,” exclaimed the landlady.
“Zo he is! zo he is! and here’s to Lud Muntrussor!” agreed the baker, tossing off the foaming bumper just placed in his hand by the dame. And similar discussions to this were taking place in every ale-house, tap-room, and tavern-kitchen in the three counties, as far as the news had flown.
* * * * *
The morning after the preliminary examination, the elegant boudoir of Lady Bannerman was half-filled with morning callers, who had “just happened in” to hear a true, authentic report from first quarters of this most wonderful of scandals. Ladies whose charms had long been thrown in the shade by the peerless beauty and genius of Estelle Morelle, now canvassed without mercy her sudden fall.
“Sweet Providence, what a coming down! What a thunderbolt to the whole family! Arrested at the altar upon a charge of——! Was such a thing ever heard of!” exclaimed the Honorable Mrs. Howard Kennaugh.
“Hush-sh! my dearest love; pray do not specify the offense in the presence of my daughters—the dear girls are so unsophisticated—their minds are so pu-err, I am perhaps just a little prudish in speaking before them,” cooed Lady Bannerman.
“What a crushing blow to Sir Parke’s pride,” said Lady Mary Monson.
“What a shock to Montressor,” drawled Mrs. Bute Trevor.
“But what a life of deception that creature must have led, to have deceived her parents and her betrothed so effectually,” said Mrs. Howard Kennaugh.
“And what could she have _expected_ other than, sooner or later, just such a denouement as the present?” inquired Lady Monson.
“Oh, you see, my dear, the fellow was in a foreign prison; she never expected him to get free; and when he returned so very inopportunely, why she affected to have believed him dead,” explained Lady Bannerman.
“Oh, the unprincipled wretch! What a happy thing for you and your sweet daughters, my dear Lady Bannerman, that you were never on visiting terms with the family at the Hall, and will not have the awkwardness of breaking with them as some of us shall,” said Mrs. Bute Trevor.
“A very happy circumstance, indeed, I assure you; I esteem it, madam,” returned her deceitful ladyship, who, even at that darkest moment, would have given the largest diamond in her parure to be placed on the dinner list of Lady Morelle, and deemed the honor cheaply purchased.
“They say that Miss Morelle, Madame L’Orient, or Lady Montressor, whichever she may properly be named, for really one does scarcely know how to choose among her various _aliases_, has been cast off by her parents. What do you think of it, Mrs. Kennaugh?” asked Mrs. Bute Trevor.
“Oh, dear, I think it no wonder! she had deceived them so deeply, and shocked them so dreadfully! If they could only cast off the cleaving dishonor with the daughter, it were better.”
“Ah, but that will _cling_; I wonder if they will be visited by any one?” suggested Lady Monson.
“Really, it is impossible to say. As far as our family are concerned, if we had ever been on visiting terms with them, it would be out of the question for us to continue an acquaintance with a set so seriously compromised,” said Lady Bannerman.
“Gracious Heaven, only to reflect upon it! One can scarcely realize such horrors,” said Mrs. Howard Kennaugh.
“When does the trial come on?” inquired Mrs. Bute Trevor.
“As soon as the Easter Assizes are open at Exeter. The case will come up before the new judge, Sir James Allan Parke.”
“Sir James Allan Parke, my dear? And he is the new judge! Why, is he not a relative of Sir Parke Morelle? Maternal uncle, or cousin, or something of the sort? It will be a strange beginning to have to try his own relative, will it not?”
“That trial will be a solemn farce, of course; nobody expects conviction for _her_.”
“But, just Heaven, will the acquittal of the court remove the dishonor that will attach to herself and all her family?”
“Of course it cannot restore her to the social position that she has forfeited.”
“To think of Estelle Morelle in the prisoner’s dock!” exclaimed Mrs. Howard Kennaugh, who seemed to have an attraction toward the most painful and humiliating points of the case.
“Yes! and then if she _should_ happen to be convicted,” suggested Lady Bannerman.
“What would be done with her?”
“She would be sent to the convict colonies. It is a transportable offense.”
“Ugh! I suppose in that case her parents would never show their faces in England again.”
“They will go abroad in _any_ case, of course. For my part, I think that inasmuch as the girl has been arraigned, she had just as well be condemned. It can make but little difference, and to ship her to Australia will end the difficulty, and be a sort of way of providing for her. Her parents are going East, and Lord Montressor has applied for an Ambassadorship to America.”
“Mamma, dear, do you know I think _that must_ be a mistake? For I heard from Mrs. Burgess, the niece of the Bishop of Exeter, that his lordship intended to assert and stand upon the legality of his marriage, and to sustain his lady,” said Miss Bannerman, upon whom all eyes were now turned in astonishment at this annunciation.
“Louise, my dear, we must not believe half that we hear.”
“But, dearest mamma, his lordship really _did_ place her under the protection of Mr. Oldfield to await the event of the trial.”
“Ridiculous, my love. His lordship had nothing to do with it; Mr. Oldfield took the poor lost creature into his house as an act of Christian charity. You know, my sweet, that a _clergyman_ can do any thing of that sort, which no one else could dare to do; because his holy cloth will ‘cover a multitude of sins’—_of others_.”
“But, dearest mamma, Mrs. Burgess told me that it was _all_ his lordship’s doings, and that in placing her under the protection of Mr. Oldfield, he gave him and his family to understand that she must be addressed only by the name and title that he had bestowed upon her, and that he chose to consider her own.”
“Perfectly preposterous, my darling girl! a peer of Lord Montressor’s exalted rank compromise himself with a questionable woman? Perfectly preposterous!”
“But, mamma dear, he is said to be devotedly attached to her!”
“Tut, tut, tut, my best Louisa, pray do not be absurd! Lord Montressor attached to _her_ in view of all that is past, and present, and to come? Preposterous! Perfectly preposterous!”
And—“Preposterous! Perfectly preposterous!” was echoed by all the ladies present.
And this scene was but a type of a score of other such scenes then transpiring in the boudoirs and drawing-rooms of Devon, Dorset, and Somerset, where this subject was discussed as far as the news had spread. But, notwithstanding the ladies had characterized the idea as “preposterous,” the fact was now forced upon their convictions, that Lord Montressor did mean to spread the aegis of his powerful name and protection over Estelle during her terrible ordeal.
It became known, as every thing even of the most secret nature does, in some mysterious manner, that Lord Montressor had called upon Sir Parke Morelle in behalf of his daughter.
* * * * *
Lord Montressor in fact suffered one night to pass, during which he hoped Sir Parke Morelle might recover from the first madness of rage into which he had been thrown by this terrible shock to his pride and affection, and then his Lordship had called at Hyde Hall and requested a private audience with the Baronet. He was shown into the superb library where he found Sir Parke reclining in a luxurious arm-chair with a reading stand beside him, and engaged in reading, or in pretending to do so.
Lord Montressor advanced with serene gravity, offering his hand.
Sir Parke arose to welcome him, and stood, slightly bent, trembling and leaning for support with one hand upon the chair. The Baronet had aged twenty years in less than twenty hours.
“Good-morning, Sir Parke.”
“Good-morning, my lord. Pray be seated.”
Lord Montressor waived his hand, nodded, took the indicated chair, and when Sir Parke Morelle had resumed his seat, said,—
“I called this morning, Sir Parke, believing that you would be pleased to hear favorable news relating to Lady Montressor.”
The Baronet’s face suddenly blanched, his lips worked, his brow gathered, but his over-mastering pride soon controlled every betrayal of emotion, and he inquired, coolly—
“News relating to——_whom_, my lord?”
“To your daughter, sir.”
“Your Lordship labors under some serious mistake. _I have no daughter_,” said the Baronet, sternly.
“No daughter? That is very sorrowful, if true; you lately gloried in the loveliest daughter in all Devon.”
“We will not speak of her, if you please, my lord,” said the baronet haughtily.
“Be it so, I will drop the subject of _your daughter_; but will you, sir, on your part, be so courteous as to permit me to speak for a few moments of, _my wife_?”
“I was not aware, Lord Montressor, that you _had_ a wife.”
“Then I have the honor of informing you of that fact. Yes, sir, I have the loveliest wife, as _you_ had the loveliest daughter, in all Devon; I have not lost her; and it is of _her_ that I come here to talk.”
“My lord! with all deference to your lordship, I must inform you that _I_ do not _know_ Lady Montressor; nor is it convenient just at present to form her ladyship’s acquaintance. We are about to leave England for some time, my lord.”
“Sir Parke!” said Lord Montressor, very gravely, “let us leave this unworthy word-fencing, and talk of this matter as Christian _men_ should discuss it—shall we not?”
The baronet’s countenance was working again; he sought to control its emotions; he sought to repress the feelings that were swelling in his bosom; he was “very vilely proud,” but his pride was scarcely proof against the earnest goodness of Lord Montressor’s nature.
His lordship saw this advantage and pursued it.
“If you will exercise the moral heroism of looking this dark matter steadily in the face, you will understand it better—summon patience and strength, while I tell you as much, and no more than it is requisite you should know, of the present position of affairs relating to—my wife.”
Then Lord Montressor commenced, and while the baronet listened with his chin upon his breast, and his hand thrust into his bosom, told with all possible delicacy what had passed, and concluded by saying—
“Thus the law and the testimony, as understood by the most eminent barrister in the kingdom, hold Estelle to have been, while yet an infant, the victim of a conspiracy, and entirely set aside the _quasi_ marriage of the child, in favor of the real marriage of the woman. Therefore, sir, I shall use the power with which the law undoubtedly invests me to protect and defend Estelle in her present straits, and when these shall be safely past, leaving the conduct of her future life to be decided by her own conscience and moral free agency.”
Leaning his head upon his thin worn hand, Sir Parke turned his glance wistfully upon the face of Lord Montressor. His lordship’s calm, self-possessed independence of thought and action amazed this world-worshiper. But Sir Parke’s thoughts, affections, and activities revolved in a very contracted orbit—from pride to self-interest, and from self-interest around again to pride—and as neither of these passions could in any degree be gratified by any sort of relations with Estelle, he judging the motives of others by his own, could not at all understand the grounds of Lord Montressor’s action. But then the humanity, liberality and independence of Lord Montressor had often suggested the suspicion to the baronet that his lordship was a little wrongheaded upon some subjects, and that was the only way, he thought, to explain his present otherwise inexplicable conduct. When Lord Montressor paused, he spoke, though somewhat off the point.
“Since we _are_ discussing this subject, which you have rather ungenerously forced upon me, my lord, I must use the opportunity afforded me of assuring your lordship that at the time of your betrothal to Miss Morelle, neither Lady Morelle nor myself had the slightest grounds for suspicion that there had existed on the side of the young lady, a previous entanglement.”
“I am assured of that, Sir Parke; though I myself had been duly advised of all this by Estelle, who would have placed a like confidence in her father had she dared.”
As much as Sir Parke was surprised by this avowal, he was much too guarded to permit his astonishment to appear; while Lord Montressor proceeded to say:—
“But, this is not the point, sir; what I wished to inquire is whether—now that you are made acquainted with the position of affairs—you will assist me in sustaining Estelle.” There was a pause. For a few minutes pride and affection had a mighty struggle in the bosom of the Baronet, though no one could have guessed it from his calm exterior, and then he replied, slowly:—
“Assuredly not, my lord. You, from the infatuation of passion, and Mr. Oldfield, from Christian charity, may unite to protect and defend her; and the literal construction of the statute may save her from the ultimate consequences of her folly, but Estelle has fallen, and no fallen woman must dare to call me father, or look to me for aid and countenance.”
An indignant rejoinder rose to Lord Montressor’s lips; he was tempted to inquire of him by whose culpable neglect it was that the child of seven years had been left to grow up under the sole charge of an unprincipled and intriguing French governess, who ended by entrapping and nearly destroying her pupil; to ascribe all the wretchedness that had ensued to his own failure in parental duty, and to hurl the charge of dishonor back into the teeth of the cold, hard, haughty man who had made it; but “He who ruleth his own spirit is mightier than he who taketh a city,” and Lord Montressor forbore by angry words to widen the breach between father and daughter.
“God give you a more humane heart, Sir Parke,” he said. “When do you leave England?”
“Within ten days,” answered the baronet.
“He wishes to escape before the opening of the Assizes. Well, well, be it so! only with augmented earnestness let me pray God to purify my heart from every earthly passion, and every selfish motive, that I may be the fitter champion of His poor child, whose earthly father and mother have forsaken her,” thought Lord Montressor. Then he inquired—since they were so soon to leave England—whether he might not be permitted to pay his respects to Lady Morelle.
But the baronet prayed that he would excuse her ladyship, who had not yet recovered the severe shock her nerves had sustained in this affair.
Lord Montressor then left his compliments and best wishes for Lady Morelle, and arose and took leave.
Worldly pride was the governing passion of Sir Parke and Lady Morelle. Just so long as their only daughter had been an object of pride to them, they had idolized her; now, however, when reproach had fallen upon her youthful head, and she had become, though undeservedly, an object of animadversion, they were the first to reject and disown her; as had new honors, however unmerited, crowned her they would have been the first to applaud.