CHAPTER VI.

THE ARRAIGNMENT.

“She stood before the crowded court, Forlorn—but oh! how fair! Though many a beauty graced the hall, To me, the loveliest there.

Ah! how I wished some angel then His pitying wing would spread, To shelter from the scorn of men That fair, defenseless head.”—_Mrs. Thorne Holmes._

On entering the thronged room, a group to the left of the door, forced itself upon Lord Montressor’s notice. It consisted of Victoire L’Orient, the little old French woman and the Abbe. The woman recognized Estelle, and pressed forward exclaiming vindictively:

“Ah, good! So that you madame—verily! Your most obedient, madame,” etc. etc. Until, at length, without looking at her, Lord Montressor just put out his arm and brushed the troublesome reptile from his lady’s path, and led her on to the same secluded seat she had daily occupied since her attendance at court. They had not been seated more than five minutes, before they were joined by Lord Dazzleright, who came hurriedly to announce that there would be no more delay than was necessary to arrange preliminaries, and that his client would be almost immediately placed at the bar. And then he hastened away again to attend to some business connected with the approaching trial.

Estelle closed her eyes and sank back in her chair. It had come, then, it had surely come. At the same bar at which within a fortnight past she had seen so many stand to answer to the charge of guilt, and from which she had seen so many sent to exile, to imprisonment, or to death, she also must stand to answer to the charge of crime, for which, should she be convicted, she also, even _she_ the delicate, sensitive, refined child of wealth, luxury and high rank would be sentenced—here again the haunting vision of the convict transport-packet, and the penal colony, with their brutalized or demonized crew, and all their loathsome and revolting horrors, swam darkly in upon her brain.

“My God! my God! have mercy and let me die,” escaped in stifled tones from her ashy lips.

“Estelle! my Estelle! be calm, be strong, be hopeful! See they are about to call you. Call thou on Him who once stood, as you are now about to stand, before man’s uncertain tribunal, to be judged by man’s often erring wisdom. Call thou on Him!” said Lord Montressor, earnestly as he arose, took her hand, drew her arm within his own, and attended by Mr. Oldfield, and followed by the eyes of all the people that thronged to suffocation the court-room, led her up to the bar, set a chair, seated her there, and placed himself beside her. The aged minister stood on the other side; he stooped and whispered:

“When you rise, my child, do not wait for the order of the court, but unvail at once; the innocent need not conceal her brow of truth.”

The indictment was then read, and the accused was ordered to rise and hold up her hand.

Estelle arose, and Lord Montressor reverentially drew aside her vail, revealing her pale, despairing, but most beautiful face. The crowd was behind her. Thus fortunately she had only to confront the bench. The Judge bent forward and looked with interest into the grief-stricken, but lovely countenance thus unvailed before him. Under his scrutiny, her eyes sank to the floor, and her color rose, crimsoning her cheek even to her temples, and then receding left her paler than before. All this passed in an instant And then—

“Prisoner, you have heard the indictment against you read. Are you guilty or not guilty of the crime laid to your charge?” asked the judge.

“Not guilty in intention, my lord,” answered the low, thrilling voice of the accused.

“You may resume your seat.”

Lord Montressor, with a deferential tenderness that never failed or faltered, handed her back to her chair, and took his stand on her right hand as before.

And so perfect was the silence among the eager, attentive crowd, that not only the questions of the Judge, but every syllable of her low-toned reply was distinctly heard in every part of the court-room.

The multitude had now pressed as near as was permitted to the bench, and many on either side were in a line of vision with the accused. And among them were many of her old associates, now gazing at her in pitiless curiosity. Fain would she have intervened the friendly black lace vail again between her face and the eyes of the assembly, though in respect to her friends’ opinions she abstained from the self indulgence; but oh! those eyes! those cruel eyes! she felt them like a forest of leveled bayonets, pointed toward her—impaling her.

The counsel for the Crown arose, and amid the profound silence of the court, opened the prosecution. I cannot in my limited space give a just idea of the logic, eloquence and power of this preliminary speech.

It became his painful duty, he said, to prosecute one of the most extraordinary cases that the annals of English crime had ever recorded before an English tribunal. The prisoner at the bar was known—either personally, or by fame, to most persons there present. She had been a lady by birth, wealth and education, holding position among the highest in the realm; a lady distinguished for rank and fortune, celebrated for her exceeding beauty and accomplished genius; _such she had been_. Now, alas! she was no less distinguished for her discovered depravity, daring and duplicity! They knew that she had been successful in fashionable, aristocratic, and even in royal circles; he would now show that she had, until recently, been equally successful in her course of concealed guilt. He would give a synopsis of her career, stating facts that he should prove by competent witnesses present in this court. He should commence with her school life, showing the gentlemen of the jury the precocious depravity with which at the early age of fourteen she had deceived her fond, indulgent parents, deluded her excellent teacher, and ensnared a young gentleman into a secret marriage, soon as lightly broken as it had been made; the wantonness with which she had abandoned her youthful bridegroom, driving him to despair and desperation, that soon ended in the wreck of his fortune and character; the duplicity with which through ten long years she had concealed the fact of her first marriage from her parents and friends; and the wickedness with which she had, just one month since, entrapped the heart and hand of a noble lord here present, and who was the second victim of this modern Messalina!

At this degrading peroration, the blood rushed to Lord Montressor’s brow—he started forward with a flashing eye and a raised hand—but, then recollecting himself and his surroundings, he made a powerful effort, controlled himself, and with the air of a man who bides his time, retreated to his stand.

Estelle, a novice to the forms and usages of courts of law, heard all the enormous charges, the atrocious wickedness officially imputed to her by the prosecutor, and sat, with pallid features and fixed stare, like a woman appalled to marble.

Lord Dazzleright stooped and spoke to her.

“You should know, Lady Montressor, that this is merely an _official_ tirade, a professional affair—it means nothing, makes no impression. The Judge don’t believe him, the jury don’t believe him, he don’t believe himself. He is only repeating the prosecutor’s usual raw-head and bloody bones formula of—

‘Fe, faw, fum—I smell the blood of an Englishman.’

No more than just that.”

But Estelle did not understand nor hear, nor ever once withdraw her stony gaze, that seemed caught up and spell-bound to the face of her terrible accuser. At length, however, the dreadful voice ceased to declaim, and gave the counsel for the defense an opportunity of answering. But as Lord Dazzleright declined replying for the present, reserving his defense, the prosecutor proceeded to call the witnesses for the crown.

It would be tedious to recapitulate the testimony, which the reader has already heard given at the investigation before the magistrate. The same witnesses, namely: Madame Gabrielle L’Orient and the Abbe Pierre Le Roux, were successively called, and testified to the same fact, to wit, that of the marriage that had been performed between Victoire L’Orient and Estelle Morelle at the church of St. Etienne, Paris, on the thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and ——. They also identified the prisoner at the bar and Victoire L’Orient as the contracting parties in that ceremony. These witnesses were in turn subjected to a severe cross-examination by Lord Dazzleright, but without effect. The duplicity and cunning of the little old Frenchwoman was at least a match for the legal acumen of the best lawyer in the three kingdoms. A host of witnesses were present, ready to testify to the well-known fact of the so called “felonious” marriage rites that had been celebrated on the first day of May last, at the parish church of Hyde, in the county of Devon, between Estelle, wife of Victoire L’Orient, and George Charles, Lord Viscount Montressor. But a few of these were needed to establish this point. And here the prosecuting attorney rested his case. Lord Dazzleright arose for the defense.

All eyes were turned upon him—he was a man of distinguished presence, as well as of brilliant genius. Amid the deepest silence and the profoundest attention, he commenced his speech.

“My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury:—The charge made against my client by the learned counsel for the crown,—imposing as it seems, and sustained as it is by competent witnesses,—is really so unsubstantial, as to be easily overthrown, by reference to a single fact,—as it is no doubt _already_ invalided in the estimation of your lordship, of the jury, and of all within the sound of my voice, by the simple _recollection_ of that fact;—to wit: that the statute laws of France as well as those of England, regard a minor of fourteen years of age as an _infant_ in the law, and incapable of contracting marriage without the knowledge and consent of his or her parents or guardians. Therefore, the quasi marriage ceremony celebrated between the man Victoire L’Orient and the infant Estelle Morelle, in the Catholic chapel of St. Etienne, Paris, on the thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and —— _was_, and _is_, completely invalid and of none effect, and could therefore form no obstacle to the nuptials solemnized between Estelle Morelle and the Lord Viscount Montressor at the parish church of Hyde on the first of May ultimo. This fact is so well understood by all here present, that I need not dwell upon the point any longer than to remind your lordship and the jury that this _is, of itself_, all sufficient for the _legal_ acquittal of my client.

“But, my lord and gentlemen, I wish to be understood as standing here, _not only_ in the character of an advocate of a client,—whom I consider as having been presented and indicted upon untenable grounds, and whom I feel assured stands already fully acquitted before you, _but also_ as the champion of a deeply-injured and most unhappy, though most estimable lady, whose high moral and intellectual excellencies can only be equaled in degree by her cruel wrongs and great sufferings,—a lady whose hand and fortune, while yet she was an infant, became the objects of a foul conspiracy, and whose fair name is now the target of the sharpest arrows of calumny. My lord and gentlemen, the proved invalidity of that first quasi marriage suffices to clear my client before the _court_. It is, therefore, to acquit her before the _tribunal of public opinion_, that I stand here and proceed to make a statement of facts, every one which I pledge myself to establish by witnesses of unquestionable probity.”

Here the learned advocate commenced and gave in detail the sorrowful history of Estelle’s school life as it is already known to the reader. His earnestness, his eloquence and graphic delineation of the wrongs and sufferings of the beautiful woman who sat there waiting her doom, in death-like stillness,—in turn flushed every cheek with indignation, or filled every eye with tears. In the course of his speech he said—in answer to the false and totally unfounded assumptions of the prosecuting attorney, and to silence forever those who from any cause might be disposed to cavil,—he should state and prove, that, illegal as was that quasi marriage, it had been entered upon in perfectly good faith by his client. She supposed it valid and binding; infant as she was, she believed herself a wife. And most wretched as that false marriage proved, and deeply repented as it was, _she_ had remained, in every respect scrupulously faithful to its supposed obligations. Yes, faithful not only for the ten months that she lived and suffered under the cruel despotism of her _soi disant_ husband, but after that,—when the penal laws of France had sent him a convict to Algiers, for the ten years of separation, and the two years of supposed widowhood. She had borne her burden _alone_, until in due course of time her betrothal to a certain noble peer, here present, made it right and proper that she should confide to him the fact of the previous union, then supposed to be broken by death.

I have thus given but a skeleton of Lord Dazzleright’s address—would I could infuse into it the fullness, force, and vitality of the original.

He finished amid a breathless silence, and proceeded to call his witnesses. They were not many, but had been selected with the greatest care. The advocate had been very busy during the interval of the past month, and had spared neither time, labor, nor expense, in collecting and consolidating testimony. He had drawn from his client’s native county, witnesses of the very highest standing, to give testimony upon the exemplary piety of her life and manners, and he had dispatched a confidential agent to the Chief of Police at Paris, to procure his assistance in hunting up the employees who had been in the service of Madame L’Orient, at the time of the disgraceful breaking up of her “Pensionat,” and in selecting such as were most competent to give evidence in this case. These were now in court, and were successively called to the stand. Their united testimony harmonized perfectly, and corroborated the statements of the advocate. They were in turn severely cross-examined by the king’s counsel; but the more their testimony was tried, the stronger it was proved. The advocate here rested the defense.

The Judge then arose to review the case, sum up the evidence, and charge the jury.

His lordship’s exposition of the law and the testimony, in his instructions, might be considered a virtual acquittal of the prisoner. It was like the usual charges of Sir James Allan Parke—short, clear, and pointed.

“Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the charge upon which the prisoner at the bar stands arraigned, and which has been clearly set forth by the counsel for the crown, and well sustained by the witnesses he has produced. You have also heard how that charge has been met and answered by the counsel for the prisoner. The fact of two marriages having taken place under the circumstances set forth, is fully established by testimony. The learned advocate for the accused rests his defense upon the alleged invalidity of the first marriage. Now, upon the validity or invalidity of that marriage, this court has no authority to pronounce judgment, the adjudication of such matters belongs, exclusively, to the Spiritual Court of Arches. If the first marriage was invalid, it would form no obstacle to the second marriage, which in such case would not be illegal. And if, on the other hand, the first marriage was perfectly valid, the second marriage would be illegal; but not necessarily _felonious_. Intention is the soul of crime. From the evidence before you, if you find that the prisoner at the bar, upon the occasion of solemnizing marriage with Lord Montressor, knew, or had good and sufficient cause to believe that she had already a husband living—it will be your duty to convict her. If, on the other hand, you find that she knew, or had good and sufficient reason to believe herself legally free to contract the said marriage, it becomes your duty to acquit her. To this single point is drawn the question. You are to judge upon it, and render your verdict accordingly.”

The Judge ceased and resumed his seat.

The jury retired under the conduct of the sheriff’s officer, to another room to deliberate.

Then the spell of breathless silence that had bound the spectators was dissolved. They breathed and spoke—a buzz of voices filled the room.

As for Estelle, she changed not from the frozen, stony look into which she had been at first appalled by the official abuse of the crown’s counsel.

Lord Montressor stooped and whispered to her,—

“My own Estelle, courage! courage for a few moments longer! and then all will be over; all will be well! You are already more than acquitted, you are justified, you are vindicated.”

“Oh, I know, I know all!” replied a sepulchral voice, that Lord Montressor scarcely recognized as belonging to his silver-tongued Estelle.

In a moment, silence fell again like death upon the court-room. It was produced by the opening of a door, and the appearance of the bailiff, ushering in the jury. They advanced to their place. The foreman stood before the Judge. Not a breath was drawn, scarcely a pulse beat in that crowded court-room for the space of a minute, during which the Judge inquired:

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

“We have, my lord,” answered the foreman.

“What say you, then, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”

“NOT GUILTY, my lord.”

“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” said the Judge.

A low deep murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. The old minister seized the hand of his protege, and burst into tears of joy. Lord Montressor grasped that of Lord Dazzleright in warm acknowledgment of his services, and congratulation of his success, and then instantly turned to his bride.

His attention was too late—she had fainted on the arm of the old clergyman—she who had firmly borne up under the horrors of the past month, had now succumbed and sunk, and lay like a statue fallen from its pedestal.

“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” repeated the clerk of the court, somewhat impatiently.

She looked indeed as though she were discharged not only from the court, but from the earth—so still, so white, so lifeless!

“Raise her in your arms, Montressor: take her into the sheriff’s room. I will show you the way,” said Lord Dazzleright, bending anxiously over her fainting form.

At this moment, also, Susan Copsewood, her maid, who had been somewhere among the spectators, succeeded in pushing her way through the crowd, and reaching the side of her mistress.

Lord Montressor raised Estelle with care, and, preceded by Lord Dazzleright, bore her from the court-room into the sheriff’s office, where he laid her on the sofa, dropped upon one knee by her side, and began to rub and chafe her hands, and invoke her by every fond epithet and hopeful word to awake—arise! Such restoratives as could be first procured were brought and applied, and with such good effect that, after a little while, a shudder passed through her frame, her breast heaved, her face quivered—she sighed, and opened her eyes. Her glance met the anxious, earnest gaze of Lord Montressor bent upon her. She sighed again, and dropped her eyelids.

“Stella! my Stella! my bride! my wife! rouse yourself, dearest! You are acquitted, you are justified,” said Lord Montressor, anxiously seeking to restore her. “You are vindicated—you are free!”

“Free! free! oh God!” she cried, so despairingly, so incoherently, with a countenance so blanched and convulsed with anguish, that her friends drew near and gazed upon her in as much astonishment as alarm.

“Compose yourself, sweet Stella,” murmured Lord Montressor, sitting down beside her, and gently smoothing away the beautiful, dishevelled black ringlets from her cold and clammy forehead. “Sweet love, be calm.”

“I will, I am,” she said, trying to control the motions of her quivering and ashen lips. Then gently putting aside his caressing hand, and rising upon her elbow, she inquired:

“But tell me, you, why was I acquitted, while all the other prisoners, who had been arraigned before me, were convicted? Did my father’s, my friends’, and my——Lord Montressor’s rank and wealth, and power, thrown into the scales of justice, tilt the balance in my favor? Had I only this advantage over other wretches?” she asked, fixing her dark eyes, querulous with suffering, upon the distressed face of the old clergyman.

“No, no, my child! This was not so. This would not have been so, of course. English law is no respecter of persons, and English courts are as incorruptible by wealth as they are undismayed by power. You owe your acquittal solely to your guiltlessness.”

“What!” she cried, fixing her wild, dilated eyes upon the old man’s face, “was it not _true_, then?”

“Was not _what_ true, my child?”

“That which the king’s counsel said of me?”

“Assuredly not! The king’s counsel himself did not believe the words that he spoke—his speech was a mere official form. Compose yourself, my child.”

“Oh, I will do so. I am composed; but hist!” she said, sinking her voice to a whisper: “did they make me out to be my lord’s wife?”

“Assuredly, my child, and you are in strict law the wife of Lord Montressor; though the Judge of the Assizes, as well as he knew that fact, had no authority to pronounce upon it.”

“Oh God! my God!” she cried, wringing her hands.

“Be calm, my child; do not let that omission distress you, for though the Judge had no authority to give judgment upon an affair that belonged exclusively to the ecclesiastic courts, yet neither was his judgment needed. We all know now, as we knew before, that you are really and truly the wife of Lord Montressor. Have we not, ever since your marriage, addressed you only by his name?”

“Lord! my Lord!” she cried, still twisting and wringing her white fingers.

“Why, Estelle, my child, what ails you? Have you borne up through all the trial to sink at last in the hour of your triumph?”

“Triumph, was it? Oh! Lord in heaven! Lord of pity!”

“Estelle! Estelle!”

“You said that I was truly the wife of Lord Montressor?”

“Undoubtedly, my child!”

“Then it was the wife of Lord Montressor who was this day tried for——Saints in heaven! I cannot name the charge!” She groaned, with the sweat of agony bursting from her icy brow.

“Estelle,” said Lord Montressor, now seating himself by her side and taking her hand—“you are ill—nervous. This is nothing new, nothing that we have not known for a month past, why then should it distress you?”

“Ah, my lord! but it is! for I did not mind what they out of pity called me! I called my lost self Estelle L’Orient! I thought it was Estelle L’Orient who was to be tried upon that degrading charge! And had it been Estelle L’Orient, it had not signified! But that the wife of the Viscount Montressor should suffer this degradation—oh! angels in heaven! it is terrible!—it is terrible!”

“Estelle, you rave! pray try, for our sakes, to control yourself, love!”

“But they spoke falsely—falsely! It _was_ Estelle L’Orient who was tried for——what I cannot speak! It was _Estelle L’Orient_, and no other! _Your_ honorable name, my lord, was never dragged down through such mire!—it remains clear of blame!—none bearing it ever came to shame!”

“Assuredly not! and none have borne it more blamelessly than my beloved Stella; but, dear one, you talk so wildly that you had best not speak at all—come! drink this, and then lie down and be quiet for a few minutes,” he said, placing to her lips a glass of ice-water that had just been brought in by her maid. She quaffed it, but instead of lying down, she straightened her figure up, put up her hands and pushed the overshadowing black ringlets from her brow, and said:

“Yes—I will—I must control myself. There! I am calmer now. Am I not, my friends?”

“Yes—the water has done you good. You are better, but you must rest a little while.”

“No—let us leave this place—I shall recover sooner without its walls.”

“As you please, then, love! Let your maid rearrange your dress. Our traveling carriage waits, and the afternoon wanes; yet before the moon rises over the hills of Dorset, I would welcome you to your new home—Montressor Castle,” said his lordship, affectionately busying himself in tying her little bonnet, and tucking in her stray ringlets.

“Ah! _would you_?—would you take Estelle to your ancestral home, where never a dishonored woman trod before?”

“Estelle! you almost anger me, love! do not talk so insanely!” said his lordship. But she had dropped her hands idly upon her lap, and with her gaze fastened abstractedly upon them, had fallen into a deep reverie that lasted several minutes, and might have lasted indefinitely longer, had not Lord Montressor gently recalled her attention to the necessity of departure. She started like one aroused from sleep—passed her hand once or twice across her brow, and then answered in a voice, strange and unnatural from its level monotone:

“Lord Montressor, will you please to excuse me for to-night? I am not equal to the journey you propose.”

“My dearest, the distance is but nine miles over the loveliest of roads, and in the easiest of carriages,” replied his lordship, encouragingly.

“No doubt, no doubt; yet I cannot take the road to-day.”

“Very well! As you please, dearest! I will then convey you to the ‘Royal Adelaide,’ the best and quietest little hotel in Exeter, where we can remain until you are thoroughly rested and restored. Will that plan suit my Stella?”

“You exhibit an angel’s goodness to me, my lord, and I must tax it still further! Listen! and pray do not misconceive me! I am not ungrateful; but—the scenes of the last month have so severely tried me—that even now, when I am acquitted, I cannot pass from the contemplation of the horrors that filled my mind and threatened my future, at once to the enjoyment of the security of your protection, and the blessedness of your love! I need a short interval of solitude, isolation, self-communion and prayer, before I dare enter the Eden you open to me! Suffer me, therefore, my dearest lord, to return, as heretofore, under the charge of our reverend friend to my apartment at the ‘Crown and Sceptre.’”

“And then?”

“We shall meet again.”

“To-morrow?”

“You may come and inquire for me, to-morrow noon.”

“Estelle! do you really feel this interval to be necessary to your convenience?”

“It is vitally necessary to my _peace_ and _sanity_, I think, my lord.”

“Be it so, then! I cannot object, nor will I reproach you, my Stella, cruel as I feel this delay to be. Shall I attend you to your hotel?”

“If you will not think me ungrateful, I prefer that you should take leave of me, as heretofore, at my carriage door.”

“Well! I will obey my lady’s behests, however unacceptable they may be, and that without cavilling,” said his lordship. “But I may come to you to-morrow, you said?”

“Come to-morrow, my lord.”

Estelle expressed herself now ready to depart. Mr. Oldfield arose and gave her his arm. Lord Montressor walked by her side, and attended her into the street and to the carriage.

“Farewell, until we meet, dear Stella,” he said, as he placed her in the carriage.

“Aye! until we meet! Farewell, my lord,” she answered solemnly—how solemnly he afterward remembered—lifting her eyes to his countenance with a momentary, deep, earnest, thrilling gaze, as though she would make and receive an impression that should last through life!

Lord Montressor lifted her hand to his lips, bowed, and retired to give place to Mr. Oldfield, who entered the carriage, took the seat beside Estelle, and gave orders to the coachman to drive on.

The streets were still thronged with people, waiting for that carriage to pass, in hope of getting a sight of one whose name, for praise or blame, was now on every tongue.

“An honorable acquittal is assuredly the next worst thing to a conviction!” thought Mr. Oldfield, as he nervously let down the inner curtains to screen his companion from the vulgar gaze.

They finally reached their inn, the neighborhood of which was peopled by an expectant crowd, waiting to see their arrival.

Mr. Oldfield wrapped her vail closely around the head of his charge, handed her out of the carriage, and led her quickly into the house, and up to their private parlor. As soon as they had reached this apartment, Estelle turned to her venerable friend, and said in a low voice:

“Mr. Oldfield, send the servants away; I wish to have a private conversation with you immediately.”

The good clergyman complied. When they were alone, she threw back her vail, and said in an earnest, solemn voice:

“Mr. Oldfield! you are a Christian minister! help me to do my duty!”

“Your _duty_, Lady Montressor?” repeated the clergyman, in a perplexed, misgiving, and questioning tone.

“Aye, my duty! my difficult—my dreadful duty!”

“I confess I do not understand you, Lady Montressor!”

“I will explain! I must withdraw myself at once and forever from Lord Montressor’s neighborhood and knowledge!”

“My child, you are certainly mad!”

“Would I were!—but no! listen! That first marriage of mine may not have been a _legal_ obstacle; but it is, nevertheless, an insurmountable _moral_ obstacle to my union with any other man! And oh! amid all the gloom, and terror, and desolation of my life, I do rejoice and thank God for one signal blessing! that I was arrested immediately, on leaving the church, so that I lived not one moment as a wife with Lord Montressor! and not one moment must I so live with him! I must fly while there is yet time!”

“My child, my dear Estelle, you distress me beyond measure by this rash resolution.”

“It is not a sudden determination! Ah no! A month ago, as soon as I recovered from the shock of my arrest and collected my scattered faculties together, I thought of it, pondered over it, prayed over it, and _decided_ upon it—long before the court had rendered judgment upon it. Had I been convicted, that conviction would have virtually released Lord Montressor. But I am acquitted, and I must by my own act release him. I ask you as a Christian minister to assist me in this duty.”

“But, I am very much perplexed! You are certainly in _law_ the wife of Lord Montressor.

“But not in right.”

“How do you propose to release him?”

“By leaving the country; he will then in time forget me.”

“He never can!”

“He must and will.”

“And then——?”

“An act of Parliament will release him from the bond of a merely nominal marriage.”

The aged pastor did not reply, but sank into painful thought, broken by occasional groans.

At length, Estelle resumed—

“You have heard my plan—will you assist me in it?”

“No, Lady Montressor, I dare not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I doubt it would be wrong to do so. It would be treachery on my part toward Lord Montressor, whose legal wife you are!”

“Oh! would to God I were indeed his rightful wife! Oh! would to God I were! But that I am not so—that I cannot be so, while Victoire L’Orient lives, you, a Christian minister, should know full well!” cried Estelle, passionately.

“Lady Montressor, I consider your conscience morbid upon this subject. Monsieur Victoire L’Orient has not the shadow of a claim to your hand. You never were his wife!” said the minister solemnly.

Estelle grew paler than ever she had been before, and fixing her eyes steadily upon the face of her venerable friend, she slowly inquired—

“And if, as you say, I never was the wife of Victoire L’Orient—_what then was I to him_?”

“The good old pastor winced and fidgetted, but at last replied—

“His innocent victim!”

“‘His innocent victim!’ And think you, then, that this ‘victim’ of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient is a fit and proper consort for the Right Honorable, the Viscount Montressor?”

“Madam, his lordship thinks so.”

Slowly and sadly Estelle shook her head—

“No, Mr. Oldfield! he is a moral hero—and he loves the poor woman before you. He would risk name, rank, and social influence—every thing, save true honor, to rescue her from the slough of despond into which she has fallen. He would be the Curtius to throw himself into the yawning abyss opened in my life.”

“Lady Montressor, you are wrong upon this subject! You accuse yourself too bitterly. Reflect! your sole error in this affair was a thoughtless disregard of your filial relations. Even that fault, I am constrained to say, was very much palliated by the circumstances in which you were placed—from earliest infancy under the sole charge and absolute rule of an artful and unscrupulous woman. You were the victim, I repeat, of a pair of accomplished villains—mother and son. As far as your part in that _quasi_ marriage went, you acted in good faith, you believed the proceeding to be a lawful one. If that marriage was illegal and has been vacated, you are not to be blamed; the fault was not yours. History and biography record many cases in which, under like circumstances, the marriage even of kings and queens have been dissolved, or rather pronounced invalid from the beginning, and the parties have been left free to contract second matrimonial engagements. Lord Montressor, I am sure, takes this view of the subject.”

Again and more mournfully Estelle shook her head.

“Ah, Mr. Oldfield! My lord thinks only of me—but I—I think of _him_, and of what he will have to bear for my sake!” Then breaking into passionate sorrow, she exclaimed—“Once, and long before he ever had the misfortune to look upon this fatal face of mine—wherever he appeared, his presence spread a certain festive gladness, like the coming of a hero or the shining of the sun! ‘That is LORD MONTRESSOR,’ would cry one exulting voice! ‘Where?’ would question a dozen eager tones and glances! ‘There! there! that tall man, with the kingly brow and saintly smile! That is he! you cannot mistake him!’ would reply those who knew his person. For every one knew his _name_. And _then_ all eyes turned upon him in admiration and worship!—But _now!_ but _now!_ how different, oh my God! Listen what he may have to bear and I may have to hear! We go into public—into church, festive hall or mart,—it does not matter which!—some busybody, who knows his face whispers ‘That is Lord Montressor.’ ‘What! he who married that woman who was tried before the Assizes?’ asks one. ‘What! he who took away another man’s bride?’ inquires another. (For so many will view it! So soon are good deeds forgotten, so little it requires to distort facts, and take away an honorable man’s good name.) But no! no! no! no! they shall not have this thing to say of my lord!—of my dear, dear and honored lord! whose name shall shine unclouded among the stars!—for whose good and happiness I would willingly become——what would I _not_ become? The dust of the earth that all men trample—if that could raise _him_ higher, or make him happier! I will go away, far away, he shall not know whither! He shall never hear of me again! I shall be dead to him! An act of Parliament will set him free from the bond of our nominal union. Then the most that the bitterest caviller can say, will be—‘That is Lord Montressor who married Miss Morelle, that was tried at Exeter! Happily he divorced her, before the marriage was consummated.’ In time the caviller will forget to say even so much; as in time Lord Montressor will also forget his lost Estelle, and be happy!”

“Happy? he! Lord Montressor! My child, from my own observations of the past month, I feel assured that Lord Montressor will never find happiness in forgetfulness of you!”

“He must and shall! I will, in my retirement, besiege Heaven with prayers for his peace! Did ever a woman wear out her days and nights with prayers that the husband whom she loves, may cease to love and may forget her? So will I pray, and so shall my lord find peace! But we lose precious time! Say! will you aid me to leave this place secretly?”

“Assuredly not, Lady Montressor.”

“And is this your ultimatum?”

“Absolutely, Lady Montressor.”

“Mr. Oldfield! are you then a Christian minister, or are you only the incumbent of Bloomingdale?” asked the lady, in sorrowful bitterness of spirit.

“I humbly trust that I am a Christian minister; but not therefore a fanatic, Lady Montressor.”

“And do you think it a Christian act to refuse to aid me in my conscientious withdrawal from Lord Montressor?”

“I take the part of law and order, my lady, and such I think the duty of every Christian.”

“And I—take the part of God and—war, if need be—choose martyrdom if need be! Good-night, _most Christian minister_!” said Lady Montressor, rising to leave the room.

“Good-night, my child. You are sarcastic; but I do not deserve it. You will sleep on this; and to-morrow you will think better of it and me. God bless and comfort you, my child. Good-night,” said the old man, very mildly.

Estelle smiled mournfully, ironically, as she passed to the door; but while her hand rested upon the lock, her heart relented—repented—she turned back, went to the side of her venerable friend, took his aged hand, and said—

“Forgive my unkind words. Trouble makes me irritable and unjust—yes! and ungrateful! For you have been very good to me; when my father and my mother forsook me, _you_ took me up; when I stood arraigned upon a criminal and degrading charge, _you_ stood at my side, sustaining me. Do you think that I can ever forget, or be thankless to you? Oh, never! no! God bless and preserve you! God love you and reward you! Good-night! _Good-night!_” she cried, and pressed his hand fervently to her heart and lips—then dropped it, turned, and hurried from the room.

The good clergyman never looked upon her living face again.