CHAPTER IV.

ESTELLE.

“Alas! the breast that inly bleeds Hath naught to fear from outward blow; Who falls from all she knows of bliss Cares little into what abyss.”—BYRON.

Meanwhile how passed the time with her who, stricken at her meridian culmination of honor and happiness, had fallen so suddenly and so low?

We left her seated in the carriage with Messrs. Oldfield and Trevor, on the road to Bloomingdale parsonage. Closely enveloped in the bridal vail, which she had as yet no opportunity of changing, she sat back in a corner of the carriage.

She was too absorbed in her despair to notice the beautiful country through which their road passed, winding among wooded hills, down through flowery dales, or between high hedges, thickly matted and overgrown with the fragrant wild rose, the maythorn, and the sweet honeysuckle, and shutting in some richly-cultivated field or garden;—or to listen to the music of the thousand choristers of nature, now singing in concert their vesper hymn.

The sun went down amid a gorgeous blazonry of crimson, purple and gold; darkness crept over the heavens and the earth, and the stars came out, first one by one, and then in scores, and then in hundreds, until myriads of angel eyes seemed to look down from the firmament, and presently the full moon arose and flooded all this beautiful scene with silvery splendor; and still Estelle, buried in the depths of her despair, remained unconscious of time, or of the change of lights.

Neither of her companions addressed her, thinking it was better that, after so much excitement, she should be left to her own reflections, if haply she might gain repose. Neither did they, in their respect for her grief, speak the one to the other; the ride passed in almost total silence.

It was late, and the moon rode high in the heavens, when the carriage turned into the narrow, shaded and decliving road leading down to Bloomingdale.

The place, as its name indicated, was a small, deep, verdant dell, settled down among crowded hills, in the midst of which nestled near together the little antique gothic church and the cottage parsonage; the cottage garden being divided from the church-yard only by a hedge, and the whole surrounded by a stone wall; and all—church, cottage, wall and hedge, so completely overgrown with moss, ivy, and creeping vines, and so densely crowded with shrubs and trees, as to be indistinguishable except by the spire rising from the clump of elms, and indicating the character of the obscured outlines.

“We are at home, dearest child,” said Mr. Oldfield, as the carriage stopped.

The footman sprang off from behind, opened the door and let down the steps.

Mr. Trevor alighted, followed by Mr. Oldfield, who handed out his protege. They were before a low garden gate, surrounded by an arch all overgrown with honeysuckles, whose pendent tendrils kissed their heads in passing through. They entered by this a semi-circular walk, under a lattice work, covered with grape vines, and leading around to the front portico of the cottage, which was covered closely, as was the whole house, with a matted growth of running roses, clematis, jessamine, flowering ivy, and every description of beautiful and fragrant climbing vine.

Within this green and blooming bower alight, in a shaded alabaster lamp, shone purely as a moon over the darkly-polished oaken door.

The Rector drew the arm of his charge protectingly within his own, and led her into this portico, and rapped.

His summons was answered by a neatly-dressed, red-cheeked, bright-eyed servant maid, who opened the door and smiled and courtesied on seeing her master; but immediately started and stared with open-mouthed wonder at the white-vailed form shrinking near him.

“Come, come, Sarah my good girl, let us in! What are you thinking of? Your mistress is——”

“Yes, sir, in the parlor!” exclaimed Sarah, recovering her self-command, and springing aside.

“Show us in there.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sarah, opening a door on the left side of the hall, and revealing one of the coziest of English home scenes.

It was a medium-sized parlor of faultless neatness and cleanliness, comfortably carpeted and curtained; warmed by a glowing fire of seacoal, in a polished steel grate, that the chilly spring evening rendered acceptable; each side of this fire-place were deep recesses, from ceiling to floor, filled on the left by a tall book-case of favorite volumes, and on the right by a high cabinet of shells, minerals, ores, coins, medallions, storied old china, and other objects of vertu. Soft, deep sofas, easy chair, and foot-cushions, of various styles, to suit every need, and tables and stands for every reasonable parlor purpose, were conveniently arranged around.

But perhaps the most attractive article of furniture was the neat tea-table that stood in the midst of the room, before the glowing grate, covered with a milk-white, ample damask table-cloth that reached the floor, and laden with its glistening service of silver-plate and white china.

In an arm-chair a little to the left of the table, sat a stately old lady of perhaps sixty-five years of age, looking not unlike the dignified housekeeper of Hyde Hall. She was arrayed in a stiff black gown, with a surplice bosom, open to reveal a glimpse of the snow-white muslin handkerchief crossed over the bosom within; a white muslin cap, with a very high and stiffly-starched crown, surmounted her silvery gray hair and severe physiognomy, and added height if not dignity to her appearance. On the other side, between her chair, and the corner of the fire-place, was a stand on which stood a lamp and a volume of what might have been religious tracts, just closed and laid aside, with her spectacles between the leaves to keep the place.

Had Estelle been in a condition to notice any thing, she might have been repelled by the severe aspect of this lady, who the reader has already guessed to be Mrs. Oldfield, the Rector’s wife.

Mrs. Oldfield belonged to the old school of English women of the middle classes. A rigid pietist, a severe disciplinarian, a model wife, mother and housekeeper; she had reared, in high respectability, a large family, had seen her sons established in professions, had married off her daughters to eligible and responsible men—in a word, had completed her life’s work without a flaw or blemish, and now at the age of sixty-five had sat down in perfect self-satisfaction and very little charity for those who had been less fortunate.

As she saw the party enter, she arose, somewhat stiffly, between formality, age and rheumatism, and stood ready to receive her guests; but soon stared almost as wildly as had Sarah Copley on perceiving the vailed bridal figure that hung upon her husband’s arm; her first idea was, that their old bachelor friend, Mr. Trevor, had resolved upon taking to himself a wife, and brought the lady there to be married; she frowned formidably in advance at this suppositions irregularity.

Mr. Oldfield sighed deeply as he noticed the rigor of her first regards of one to whom he had dared to promise on her part a mother’s tender care; he silently prayed that when she should know all, the weight of her righteous indignation might fall only on the guilty, not on the innocent unfortunate. But her austere aspect, while as yet she knew nothing to the disadvantage of the guest, (but that she seemed to be placed in an embarrassing position,) filled him with forebodings as to her future treatment of his charge; while he thanked heaven for the mental abstraction from outward objects that so shielded the already wounded heart of poor Estelle from the arrows of unkindness in her eyes.

All these thoughts on either side passed in much less time than it has taken to tell.

“This is Lady Montressor, Mrs. Oldfield,” said the Rector, presenting his protege.

“Lady—Mon—tressor?” slowly repeated the hostess, gazing searchingly into the pale, worn, most despairing, yet perfectly beautiful face, that with its downcast eyes, was now unvailed and bowed before her.

She knew that Mr. Oldfield had gone to Hyde that morning to assist at the marriage of Lord Montressor and Miss Morelle, whom by the way she had not seen for years, and could not now recognize in the sorrow-stunned woman before her; but why should Lady Montressor, who was married this morning, be here alone in bridal array, to-night?

“Oh! I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” she said at length, recovering her presence of mind, though by no means her astonishment, and offering her own comfortable chair to her visitor—“Pray be seated, Lady Montressor.”

Estelle mechanically sank into the proferred seat.

Mr. Trevor greeted his hostess, who welcomed him kindly, and invited him to sit down.

The Rector threw himself into his own favorite leathern chair, rubbed his hands with an assumption of cheerful ease, and said—

“Now tea! tea! my dear! as quickly as it can be served. This lady greatly needs refreshment, for I think she has not broken her fast since morning.”

“But, perhaps, Lady Montressor would prefer first to retire to her room and change her dress,” suggested the old lady, turning toward her guest and gazing with no abatement of astonishment upon her strange attire, wondering whether she had brought any baggage, and in fact wondering all around the compass of which she formed the centre.

But Estelle did not reply to her suggestion, most likely did not understand, or even hear it.

And Mr. Oldfield hastened to answer.

“No, my dear, I think not; her ladyship’s trunks have not yet arrived, and I think she will not feel disposed to change until she retires for the night, which should be soon, as she is really ill from fatigue. Therefore, tea! tea! my good wife, as soon as possible.”

Then rising, and crossing over to Estelle, he said,

“You would like to retire soon, my child, would you not?”

“Oh! yes—yes,” she murmured in a voice nearly extinct with grief and weariness.

“But—_where is his lordship_?” very naturally inquired the correct old gentlewoman.

“Lord Montressor—is—ahem!—not here at the present time,” replied the Rector, pointedly; but seeing that this very direct answer failed to enlighten and satisfy his lady, he added, “Come, come, my dear! there is no misunderstanding between Lord and Lady Montressor; they are on excellent terms. Well, of course, there is _something_ to be explained, which you shall hear in time! meanwhile, my dear, tea, tea!”

It was some comfort to be told that there _was_ something real and not to be left to imagine herself under the influence of a wierd dream; and so the excellent woman, set somewhat more at ease upon the subject of this strange bridal apparition, rang and ordered tea, which was immediately served.

“Suffer me to relieve you, my child,” said the Rector, gently, but rather awkwardly, officiating as lady’s maid and unfastening and removing the vail and wreath from her brow. “There, let me draw your easy chair to the table. Do you hear me, dear child?” he inquired, uneasy at beholding her look of apathetic despair.

“Oh! yes, yes, I hear, understand, and thank you, for this and for all. I know—I remember, that but for you, I should have passed this night—that was to have been my wedding-night,—in prison,” she murmured in a deep heart-thrilling tone.

“‘_In prison!_’” Mrs. Oldfield had heard these fearful words, and involuntarily echoed them!

“Do not mind her, my dear Madam—she—I mean, don’t mind her,” whispered Mr. Trevor, to his hostess, whose astonishment had returned with a vengeance.

Estelle, had she been less absorbed in her profound sorrow, might have noticed the shocked and scandalized expression of the old lady’s countenance; but as it was, the severe regards of Mrs. Oldfield fell harmlessly upon her whom despair had rendered invulnerable.

“Come, my child, you must really force yourself to take something. Endeavor now to swallow some tea and toast, for the sake of one in whose name I speak to you,” said the Rector, gently placing his charge at the table.

Silently and mechanically Estelle did all that was required of her, though the act of swallowing was almost impossible. And now the deferential care of the two clergymen for their fair charge again modified Mrs. Oldfield’s ill suspicions of her guest.

Directly after tea, at the suggestion of Mr. Oldfield, the bell was rung, and the little bright-eyed maid, Sarah Copley, was summoned to show Lady Montressor to her chamber.

Mrs. Oldfield gave some directions in a low voice, aside to her Abigail, who courtesied, lighted a night-lamp, and stood ready to attend her ladyship.

Silently and mechanically Estelle arose and bowing good-night to the circle, followed her attendant from the parlor.

When they had disappeared, Mr. Oldfield told the story of Lady Montressor’s arrest at the altar, and the subsequent developments relating to her school history. But no logic or eloquence of the narrator, no palliating or explaining of the circumstances, could serve to lessen in Mrs. Oldfield’s estimation the moral turpitude of her whom this rigorous judge persisted in regarding as a sinner of the deepest dye. And the anxious and distressed rector had the utmost difficulty in obtaining a promise that the unhappy lady, while she remained their guest, should be attended and served with the consideration due her rank. But this promise once given, however reluctantly, he knew would be faithfully performed.

Lady Montressor reached her chamber, which was the front room immediately over the parlor, and which she found neatly and plainly arranged, with a polished wax floor, maple furniture, and white dimity curtains, bed hangings and chair covers, and warmed by a bright little fire in the grate. The cheerful maid laid out a delicate cap and gown from her mistress’s wardrobe, and stood waiting Lady Montressor’s orders. Estelle gently declined her further attendance, and dismissed her.

And then——

For the first time since her appalling calamity, Estelle found herself alone.

She sank into an arm-chair, dropped her throbbing and burning forehead upon her hands, and tried to recollect herself and think coherently. For now that she was alone, the fearful events of the last twelve hours seemed the wierd and horrible conjurations of fever or nightmare. It was as difficult as it was terrible to realize her position.

The first stunning shock of the storm had passed. The thunderbolt had fallen, and the charred and blackened ruins of her happiness lay all around her. The whirlwind had crossed her path of life, sweeping away her dearest treasures. The waters of affliction had rolled over her soul, bearing off her most precious earthly hopes. Yes, the first shock of the storm had passed; but desolation was within and around her, and the clouds still lowered, dark, heavy, and threatening, over her devoted head.

She rapidly reviewed the chain of circumstances—when scarcely fourteen years of age, she had been ensnared by an intriguing governess, and an unprincipled fortune-hunter, into a secret marriage, soon bitterly repented by herself, and disrupted by the man’s felony, and now pronounced to have been from the beginning illegal. After ten years of separation, and two of supposed widowhood, she had that morning contracted a second marriage with a party of the highest rank and character, which was said to be legal and binding to all intents and purposes. Arrested on leaving the church, upon a grave and degrading charge, she had been discarded by her parents, who would probably leave England forever, to conceal their humiliation under foreign skies; but was protected, though most delicately, from a distance, through reverend hands, by Lord Montressor, a man of stainless honor, who would be the last on earth to sacrifice moral principle to human affection, and who had in view of the law and the testimony, declared his determination to stand by the legality of their late marriage, had given her the protection of his name and title; and exacted of all others that they should address her only by that; finally, she was bound over to appear at the approaching assizes to answer the charge of a terrible and shameful crime!

Such was the past and present.

What lay before her in the future?

Her trial.

It is true that her counsel and her few devoted friends, flattered themselves and her with the promise of certain deliverance. But even her limited experience taught her that very little dependence could be placed upon the prejudgment of partisans, who always made it a point to sustain the hopes of the accused by positive promises of acquittal, which were not always confirmed by the verdict of the jury. The law was proverbially uncertain. It was very possible she might be convicted.

And then—

A vision of the convict cell, the transport ship, the penal colonies, swam darkly before her mind’s eyes, turning her soul sick with horror. It was but for a moment, and then, strange to say, she regarded this possible result as the condemned might regard the rack, the wheel, or the stake—a frightful torture certainly, but one happily soon ending in death. And merely saying—

“I should soon sink under it, and that would be well,”—she dismissed the vision, and turned to look upon the other—scarcely the happier—contingency.

She might be acquitted, as was confidently promised by her friends, upon the ground of the illegality of the childish marriage into which she had first been entrapped.

Such were the uncertain prospects of the future.

What now became her duty?

For, with whomsoever the adjudication of her legal position rested, that of her moral one remained, under these as under other circumstances, with herself alone.

What then was her duty?

It might be indicated by circumstances.

In the event of a conviction, her fate would be taken out of her own hands, leaving her nothing to do, but simply to submit and be patient until death should terminate her sufferings.

But on the other hand, with the issue of acquittal would come a mighty moral problem, involving a terrible soul-struggle; for then Lord Montressor would immediately claim her as his wife; nay more, he would undoubtedly have his traveling carriage in waiting to convey her directly from the scene of her sufferings to his seat in Dorset, or to some other peaceful retreat he would provide, where the arms of affection should uphold and nurse her back to life, health, and serenity. The laws of the realm would sustain him in this course; the world, ever ready to bow to success, would be his partisan; and deeper and more potent than law, or world, the advocate in her own heart was retained in his service and would plead his cause.

Should she admit his claim, yield herself up to his higher wisdom for direction, and with a child’s unquestioning trust repose in the blessed haven of his large love?

For a moment, a vision of this sweet rest beamed in upon her dark and troubled soul like the holy light of heaven.

Should she give herself up to the happiness prepared for her?

There was a pause—a long pause, and silence in her soul. Her conscience gave no affirmative.

She only saw herself at a fork in the road of life from which two paths diverged.

The one splendid with sunshine, beautiful with verdure, brilliant with flowers, and fragrant with their breath, musical with bird songs, and more than all, blessed with the presence of her noble beloved, who stood with outstretched arms, wooing her to enter. But, was Duty there?

The other, dark with cloud and storm, barren, silent, solitary, desolate, no helping hand there held out to her, no encouraging voice inviting her, she would tread it, if tread it she must, alone, with tearful eyes and bleeding feet, and staggering steps; yet not unblessed, if Duty were there.

How should she decide? The question pressed itself upon her conscience for solution. She would not try to shake it off, to say—“Time enough when the trial is over”—for she felt constrained to be prepared for the result of that trial.

It was a terrible ordeal! one not to be safely passed without much prayer.

Estelle sank upon her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for light to see her duty, and for strength to follow it. Who ever sought the Source of light and strength and came away blind and feeble?

The night spent in prayer brought a morning full of peace and courage. She had decided what her course should be in the event of an acquittal.

It was eight o’clock before her bell summoned Sarah Copley, who entered as usual, smilingly, and said:

“If you please, my lady, your trunks have come from Hyde, and will you please to have them brought up here?”

“Yes, certainly, my girl, but how came they here?”

“Please, my lady, I don’t know; but when my master sent back the Bishop’s carriage, he sent a note to Sir Parke Morelle, I know, because I handed it to John, the footman, to deliver; and, please your ladyship, the trunks came about half an hour ago, and your ladyship’s own maid came with them.”

“What? Susan Copsewood?”

“Yes, your ladyship, shall I send her up? or would your ladyship accept my services?”

“Thank you, my good girl, no; send up Susan Copsewood.”

“Yes, madam,” said the Abigail, disappearing.

In a few minutes after, Susan Copsewood entered, and immediately upon the sight of her adored and unhappy mistress, sank down at her feet, embraced her knees, and burst into tears.

Lady Montressor laid her hand upon the girl’s head in silent benediction. There was no utility in words as yet, and none were spoken. When, however, Susan had wept herself into calmness, and had arisen from her feet, and stood waiting, Lady Montressor inquired—

“How are my father and mother, Susan?”

“Hem! dear lady, I always tell you the truth if I speak at all. But now please excuse me from speaking,” said the girl, sadly.

“Ah! God, is it so?—have I nearly killed or maddened my parents?” exclaimed Lady Montressor, growing deathly pale and faint, and sinking into the nearest seat.

“Oh, then, I see I must speak! No, dear madam, Sir Parke and my lady are not dead, nor are they any madder than they always were—saving your presence; but, since I must tell the truth lest worse be thought, they are both very angry.”

“It was to be expected! But what put it in your head, kind girl, to come to me?”

“Why, no one put it there—it came there naturally, my lady! What else could I do but come to you the first opportunity? Last night about eleven o’clock, John Brownloe, the Bishop of Exeter’s footman, brought a note from Mr. Oldfield to master. I saw it handed to master’s own man to be carried up. Well! soon the bell was rung for me, and I was ordered to pack up all your ladyship’s wardrobe, and have it ready to dispatch at four o’clock this morning. So I went to work and did it. Just before I strapped down the last trunk, master came in. And ‘Susan,’ says he, ‘have you strapped down all the trunks?’ ‘All but this, sir,’ says I. ‘Lift up the lid,’ says he. I did so, and he put a letter in——”

“A letter! Susan, my girl, where is it?” exclaimed Lady Montressor, eagerly.

“In the buff-colored trunk, my lady, which they are going to bring up presently.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as I was saying, dear lady, after I had packed every thing up, and looked around to see if any thing had been forgotten, lo and behold there was _myself_ that might have been left behind, if I hadn’t recollected, so I got ready with the rest of your ladyship’s effects, to be sent off. Thus at four o’clock in the morning I delivered myself along with the trunks. ‘And who are you?’ says the drayman. ‘I wasn’t hired to take no passengers, but only baggage,’ says he. ‘Very well,’ says I. ‘I’m part of her ladyship’s baggage—lend a hand and hoist me up.’ So after a little more altercation, the stupid fellow let me up, and here I am, your ladyship!”

“Thank you, Susan; you——”

She was here interrupted by a rap at the door.

It was a couple of plow-boys, who had brought up her trunks. As soon as they were placed, and the boys had retired, Lady Montressor hastened to take the keys from Susan, and unlock one—the one indicated as containing the letter. There it lay upon the top of all the contents—she snatched it eagerly. Oh! might it bear one word of peace and pardon to her sorrow-stricken heart! She tore it open. It was an envelope, containing a check for a thousand pounds, drawn in her favor, upon the bank of Exeter. No more, not a line—not a word. With a deep sigh, Estelle laid it aside, and sank into her chair.

The maid, with a tact and delicacy above her condition in life, selected from among the many rich dresses of the trousseau, a morning robe of pale gray silk—the plainest there, and laid it out for her lady’s use; and then, without words, prepared her toilet; so that Lady Montressor was ready to go below to meet the family at their nine o’clock breakfast.

As she descended, the hall door was open, and she looked out. How beautiful, on this bright May morning, was the parsonage and its surroundings,—a wilderness of flowers, shrubs, and trees, with the old church spire rising from the midst. Upon any other former day, this sweet rural landscape would have filled the heart of Estelle with delight; now, however, she only saw that it was lovely, and passed on to the door on the right, leading into the parlor.

The family were already gathered there. As she opened the door, Mr. Oldfield arose and came to meet her, and with a kind—

“Good-morning, my child; I hope you have rested well,” led her to the table.

Mrs. Oldfield treated her with stately courtesy.

And Mr. Trevor, with a smile and bow, placed a chair for her use.

Breakfast, that seemed only to await her arrival, was immediately served. During that meal Mrs. Oldfield never, except in strict necessity, addressed her fair guest; and when she spoke it was with the most ceremonious politeness. There was nothing to complain of, yet Lady Montressor felt depressed and chilled; but she accepted this, as all else, in the submissive spirit of expiation.

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Trevor, whose charge lay in the neighborhood of Montressor Castle, in the adjoining county of Dorset, took leave, saying, as he held the hand of Lady Montressor:

“Though I depart from your presence, I remain in your service, my child. When I can render you any assistance, command me; I am ever at your orders.”

“I earnestly thank you, sir,” replied Estelle.

Mr. Trevor was gone.

Mr. Oldfield went out to make parish calls.

And Lady Montressor was left alone with her hostess, who, though polite, was not congenial.

Soon, therefore, Estelle retired to her chamber.

Her faithful maid had set the room in order, and was now engaged in unpacking and hanging up her dresses in the two clothes closets that flanked the fire-place. They formed a part of that rich, tasteful, and costly trousseau that had been provided for her bridal day’s vanities,—trifles certainly they were at most; yet as mementos of the past, the past, but only yesterday, yet seeming, by the yawning gulf that divided it from to-day, so far apart, so long ago!—it was painful to see them again! So Susan Copsewood instinctively felt, and she hurried them out of sight.

“Have they sent my pocket Bible among the rest, Susan?”

“Yes, my lady, here it is,” and the faithful girl handed it to her mistress.

Lady Montressor received the blessed volume with reverence, and sinking into her arm-chair, opened its pages to seek for light and strength and comfort.

“Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom you shall fear: Fear him which after he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear him.”

These were the words that first met her eye, and she felt them as a message to her own soul. She read no further just then, but softly dropping the book upon her lap, she fell into deep meditation upon the word. Yes! amid all the storm and terror of her position, the question presented to her soul was the old, old question of simply doing right or doing wrong. And her Judge, above all judges was—God! Might he strengthen her to do her awful duty!

While Lady Montressor meditated, read, and prayed in her chamber, the news that she had sought sanctuary with the Rector of Bloomingdale spread swiftly through the neighborhood. And many were the friends and acquaintance of the Rector’s family, who _happened_ to drop in during the course of that day. Some few among them were personally known to Estelle, and these ventured to inquire for her; but Mrs. Oldfield, after sending a message to her guest, and receiving an answer, replied stiffly that Lady Montressor preferred to keep her chamber, and declined visitors. And so day after day passed, during which Estelle secluded herself, or only appeared when summoned to join the family at meal times.

Lord Montressor, busy in her cause, forbore to visit or even to correspond with his hapless bride.

Lord Dazzleright devoted the whole of his valuable time and great legal ability to her case, and spoke confidently of a fortunate issue.

Once during the week he called upon his client, and was the first and only visitor that Lady Montressor, during her self-sequestration, received. He came to gather from her minute and detailed particulars of her school life, and _quasi_ marriage, and having possessed himself of all, and taken notes, he said:

“There can be no doubt as to the result of this trial. It will be not only an acquittal, but a full and complete vindication. Therefore, permit me to say, Lady Montressor, that you do wrong to withdraw yourself from your husband’s protection. Your course argues, on your part, a doubt of your true position, which may injure your case, when it comes before the Assizes.”

“My lord, there is a higher tribunal, at which, some day, I shall have to appear, and I must act in view of that,” replied the lady, in a deep, liquid, melodious voice, that seemed to flow and ripple over the fragments of a broken heart.

Lord Dazzleright looked suddenly into her face, and through its dark and lovely features recognized the spirit that could “suffer and be strong”—the spirit patient and firm as sad. He sighed, and pressed her hand as he took his leave.

The next day Estelle learned, through Susan Copsewood, who had obtained the news from authentic sources, that her parents had gone to Southampton, whence they would sail in a few days for Italy.

“Another blow! I accept it! Oh, God, I accept it! Only make me patient to suffer, and strong to act!” was the prayer that went up from her crushed heart, upon hearing of this desertion.

She opened her Bible to seek for comfort. Did an angel guide her hand, or did the Lord of heaven and earth—the Father of all, before whom not a sparrow falleth unmarked—thus speak directly to his stricken child? For oh, words of life and light! these were they that met her mournful eyes: “Fear _thou_ not; for _I_ am with thee: be not dismayed; for _I_ am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

She dropped the book and closed her eyes, for a flood of blessing had descended upon her, enveloping and impenetrating her whole being, and filling her with Divine love, wisdom, and strength.

She needed all—love to teach her patience and forgiveness under unjust contumely, wisdom to guide her in her dark and dangerous path, strength to enable her to bear the approaching terrible ordeal.

In a few days intelligence was received that the Judges were within a few days’ journey of Exeter, and that the Assizes would be opened on the following Monday.

Good Mr. Oldfield heard this news with much more agitation than was felt by his charge, who, pale and still, awaited her fate.

The Rector wrote a note and sent it by a special messenger to Lord Dazzleright, desiring his lordship to come at his earliest possible convenience and advise with him.

Lord Dazzleright lost no time in complying with the request, and arrived the next day at the parsonage.

Mr. Oldfield immediately conducted his lordship into his library, which was the room on the right side of the entrance hall, opposite to his old wife’s parlor.

When they had reached this apartment, the Rector handed a chair to his guest, and dropped himself into another, saying:

“The Assizes are at hand.”

“I know it—thank Heaven, the suspense will be over,” replied Lord Dazzleright, cheerfully.

“But—I took the liberty of sending for your lordship to ask—what am _I_, as Lady Montressor’s surety, expected to do? Am I to wait here with her until a tipstaff summons us to appear, or must I take her to Exeter, and render her up? You see, though I am seventy years of age, I was never in a criminal court in any capacity in my life, and knew no more of its forms than a child.”

“I see: of course you are expected, without further notice to bring your charge into court. But, anticipating this natural embarrassment on your part, I have brought and left my carriage at the inn, and will call with it to-morrow to take yourself and Lady Montressor to Exeter—if you will accept.”

“Oh, with promptitude, and many thanks, my lord.”

“In this case, then, all that you will have to do will be to take seats in the carriage and leave the rest to myself, as her ladyship’s counsel.”

“I am very grateful to have my mind thus far relieved, my lord.”

“I shall be at your door to-morrow morning, at ten—if that hour will suit you.”

“Perfectly, my lord.”

“And now, as I have a world of business on my hands, I must bid you good-day,” said Lord Dazzleright.

“Good-day, and many thanks, my lord.”

The next morning, at the appointed hour, Lord Dazzleright’s carriage stood before the vine-shaded garden gate of the parsonage.

It was a dark, gloomy, foreboding day, and sensibly affected the spirits of all concerned.

Estelle prayed long and earnestly in her chamber, remaining on her knees, until a gentle rap at the door, and the voice of her faithful attendant, warned her that her friends were waiting. Then she arose, and over her simple grey silk dress wrapped a fine grey woolen shawl, put on a close cottage bonnet of grey crape, threw over it a black lace vail, took her gloves and her Bible, and followed her maid down stairs.

Mr. Oldfield waited in the hall, and Lord Dazzleright in the carriage, to receive her.

Lord Dazzleright’s kindness of heart suggested all things needful.

“Where is her ladyship’s woman?” he inquired, after greeting Lady Montressor, and observing that she was unattended. “Is she not going with her mistress?”

“Why, nothing has been said of it, my lord; we did not know that it would be convenient to your lordship to——”

“Is that she? hasten, my good girl, throw on your bonnet, and get in here beside me—did you not know your lady would require your services?” said Lord Dazzleright, interrupting the Rector to hurry the maid.

“Yes, my lord, I knew it well enough, only——” the rest of her sentence was lost in distance, as she hurried around the circular walk toward the house. She reappeared in five minutes, and took her place in the carriage.

And Lady Montressor and the Rector occupying the back seat, and Lord Dazzleright and the maid the front one, they drove rapidly off toward the Exeter turnpike.

A long, dreary ride, under a dark and weeping sky, and over a landscape humid with its fallen tears, brought them, at the close of day, into the city of Exeter, the capital of Devonshire, and the ancient seat of the West Saxon kings. They drew up, and turned into the court-yard of a quiet hotel in the neighborhood of the Assizes. There was no registry of names required there, as in our own “free” country, and therefore no gaping and staring crowd could identify the pale, beautiful woman, who came attended by a clergyman and an attorney, as the high-born lady, whose approaching trial for a grave offense, occupied all thoughts, and attracted crowds to the city; and no officious reporters could publish the fact that—“Lady Montressor occupied apartments at the ‘Crown and Sceptre.’” The next day was the Sabbath, during which Estelle, escorted by Mr. Oldfield, twice attended Divine service in public, without attracting attention. She passed the evening in her chamber, in prayer and self-communion, to be ready to meet the morrow and the opening of the Assizes.