CHAPTER VIII.

THE FORSAKEN.

“Though the world for this commend thee, Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another’s woe:

“Still thy heart its life retaineth— Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is—that we no more may meet.

“Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow Bends to thee—by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now.”—_Byron._

Lord Montressor arose early next morning, and devoted the whole forenoon to engaging a pleasant suite of rooms at the “Royal Adelaide,” and in superintending their arrangement for the reception of his bride. The apartments were quite ready by eleven o’clock.

And a few minutes before twelve, Lord Montressor entered his carriage, and drove to the “Crown and Sceptre,” to keep his appointment with Estelle.

He inquired for Lady Montressor, and was shown up at once into her private parlor, while the waiter took his card up to her ladyship’s chamber. He waited impatiently for a few moments until the servant returned, with the information that neither Lady Montressor nor her woman was in her ladyship’s room.

“That is strange,” thought Lord Montressor. “Take this card up to Mr. Oldfield, and let him know that I would be happy to see him in this room,” he said, handing the “pasteboard” to the waiter. The man received it and disappeared.

There was no suspicion nor misgiving in the impatience with which Lord Montressor waited for the appearance of Mr. Oldfield. He simply thought it unusual that Lady Montressor should not be ready to receive him, and wished to inquire for her of the minister. Presently the door opened, and Mr. Oldfield entered.

“Ah! how do you do, my dear friend? I hope Lady Montressor is well this morning?” said his lordship, advancing to meet the pastor.

“I hope so too, but Lady Montressor has not made her appearance to-day,” said Mr. Oldfield.

“Indeed! and it is now,” said his lordship, consulting the mantle clock, “half-past twelve.”

“Her ladyship sometimes breakfasts and spends her mornings in her chamber, and as she was very much fatigued last night, probably she prefers to keep her own room to-day. Sit down, my lord! sit down! do not stand,” said the minister, handing a chair to his visitor and seating himself.

“But, my dear sir, I sent up my card, and neither Lady Montressor nor her attendant is in her ladyship’s apartment. I had hoped that my lady was with you.”

“No, sir; no, no; I have seen neither Lady Montressor nor her maid this morning,” said Mr. Oldfield, beginning to feel a vague uneasiness.

“This is a little unusual, is it not?” inquired his lordship.

“Eh?—yes! it _is_, my lord! _Very_ unusual! I—think I will go up and see if—any thing is the matter!” gasped the old man in a great accession of uneasiness, as he hurriedly left the room to go in search of his charge.

Lord Montressor, being left alone, paced up and down the parlor floor until he was startled by the violent throwing open of the door, and the impetuous entrance of Mr. Oldfield, who pale and agitated held out two letters—one sealed, the other open and fluttering in his hand.

“What! what is the matter? Estelle! my Estelle! Is she ill? Has any thing happened to her? In the name of Heaven speak, Mr. Oldfield! What of my Estelle?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, stricken with a panic of anxiety.

“Gone! my lord! She is gone!”

“GONE!”

“Gone! Fled!”

“FLED!”

“Fled, my lord! Fled alone!”

“In the name of Heaven, my friend, what mean you?”

“Oh! sir! read and see!” exclaimed the old man, thrusting the two letters into the hands of his companion, and sinking into a chair, and wiping the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead.

Lord Montressor seized the billets, and naturally read the open one first. It was addressed to Mr. Oldfield, and was as follows:

“DEAR AND HONORED FRIEND:—Duty constrains me to depart. And though your heart so pleads for the temporal happiness of your ‘child,’ as almost now to drown the voice of conscience, yet on calm, dispassionate reflection, you will see that it is so. Farewell! Be Heaven as kind to you, as you have been to the poor

ESTELLE.”

With a heavy groan, Lord Montressor threw this note aside, and tore open and devoured the contents of the other, which was addressed to himself. It was written as coolly as she in her self-denial had ordained it to be:

“MY LORD:—Conscience compels me to withdraw from you. Only to avoid hindrance I go secretly. An Act of Parliament will free you from the bond of our merely nominal marriage. Farewell, my Lord! May you be happy with a happier woman than the lost

ESTELLE.”

“What does all this mean? When did she go? Where has she gone? _How_ has she gone? What friends has she? What means? Answer, in the name of Heaven, sir, if you can!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in extreme agitation.

“Ah, my lord, I do not know. I cannot tell. How should I? Except—yes! give me time!” cried the old man, wiping the beaded drops from his forehead, and struggling to regain composure.

“Well, sir? Well?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, impatiently.

“Yes! Well, when did she go, you ask? Stay! let me collect myself and think—yes, she certainly last night spoke of going,” said the old man somewhat incoherently.

“Last night she spoke of going, and you did not warn me? Oh, Mr. Oldfield!” exclaimed his lordship, reproachfully.

“My lord, she only _spoke_ of going, and invoked my assistance. I refused to aid her, and endeavored to persuade her from her purpose. Had I suspected she was about to depart, I should at once have summoned your lordship. But who could have foreseen that she would have left us in this sudden manner?”

“She spoke last night of going! Inform me, sir, if you please, and as nearly as you can recollect, _all_ that passed last night upon that subject.”

“I will endeavor to comply, my lord,” said the clergyman, who then commenced and related the conversation that had taken place between himself and Lady Montressor in that parlor on the evening previous.

Lord Montressor groaned aloud.

“Sir, did she drop no hint as to _whither_ she intended to go?”

“Not a word, not a breath, my lord!”

“Unhappy girl! Oh Estelle! Estelle! whom I would have gathered into my bosom, safe from all the storms of life! where are you now? Oh! Estelle, Estelle!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. In another moment he started up.

“We waste time, Mr. Oldfield. Show me into her room. Perhaps there, some clue may be found to her flight.”

With a deep sigh the aged minister nodded assent, and preceded his friend up the stairs, and into the deserted chamber lately occupied by Lady Montressor.

Lord Montressor, who had by this time recovered his presence of mind, calmly and collectedly went about the business of investigation.

“The bed has not been occupied; she did not therefore sleep here. But the couch is pressed; she must have laid down to rest. Let me see: here are the sperm candles, half burned down; she must have passed some hours of the night here. Her trunks are here; therefore she must have preferred to go out very quietly, and without calling assistance,” he said, going about the room, and making his observations.

“Oh, my lord! ring the bell! summon the people of the inn, and question them,” said the old clergyman, eagerly moving toward the bell-rope.

“Stay—do not ring yet; to examine these people should be our last resort; from appearances here, and from other circumstances, I doubt if they know any thing about her flight. And if they do not, I prefer not to enlighten them. Let us go down.”

They left the room, locking the door, and withdrawing the key.

When they had reached the parlor, Lord Montressor said:

“Make no stir; create no excitement; leave the people of the inn to suppose, as they naturally will do, that Lady Montressor has left with your knowledge and consent. I will tell you how we may manage, without exciting their suspicion, to get information from them. Ring, and call for your bill up to this present hour, as if you were about to leave, which I suppose you will do in the course of the day. When the account is presented, note its _last items_. See if there is supper, a post-chaise, a messenger, or a porter, charged last night for Lady Montressor. If so, you can cavil at these items, and so, by disputing a little, get the whole facts, as far as they may be known here—whether she took supper, whether she procured a conveyance from the house, at what hour she went, and whither—and all without attracting particular attention.”

“I see, I see,” exclaimed the old man, pulling the bell-rope so vigorously that it was speedily answered by a waiter, who was directed to bring up Mr. Oldfield’s account.

When, a few minutes after, the man reappeared, and presented the bill, Mr. Oldfield took it and glanced down its columns: supper for Lady Montressor was the last item.

“Hum-m—hum-m—hum-m” said the old gentleman, in the tone of one taking exception—“I think there is some mistake here; I think her ladyship did not take supper.”

“Yes, please your reverence, I carried it up,” replied the waiter.

“Hum-m—it must have been very late when you carried it up—as you say,” said Mr. Oldfield, with the manner of a man who won’t be imposed upon.

“Yes, please zir—at ten o’clock,” replied the man.

“Hum-m. You have not charged the post-chaise, I see!”

“There wasn’t no po’shay ordered, for no one here, please zir.”

“Ah, yes, I—you are right—(the old man was about to say, “I _recollect_—you are right,” but arrested himself before telling an untruth)—yes, you are right! Lady Montressor went away in a cab.”

A few more adroitly put questions resulted in nothing satisfactory. The bill was paid, and the waiter, with a small donation, dismissed.

“She _must_ have gone away in a cab, you know; so I told no untruth about _that_,” said Mr. Oldfield, uneasy upon the subject of his little duplicity.

“These, then, are the facts as far as we know them—simply, that she took supper, rested awhile, wrote a letter, and, attended by her maid, left the house after ten o’clock. Now, the question is, _Whither_ did she go?”

The old minister mournfully shook his head. He could make no suggestion.

“I think,” continued Lord Montressor, notwithstanding his great anxiety, calmly reasoning out the matter, “judging from all you told me, that she meant to leave England; to do this she must have gone to Liverpool or to London. The night train for London and Liverpool leaves at twelve o’clock. I think she went by that train. The grand junction is at Bristol. So far, I think, we have her. But at Bristol—did she take the London or the Liverpool route? Have you any knowledge to throw light upon this subject?”

The clergyman shook his head.

“Has she _friends_ at either of these places?”

Again the old man shook his head, with a mournful wave of the hand, saying,

“_Once_, my lord, _many_. _Now_, I doubt, _any_.”

“My God! what will become of her! so delicate, so fragile, so sorrowful, so inexperienced—alone, and unfriended in this bitter world! Oh! Estelle! my Estelle! But I must not think of these things! to do so will unfit me for action. Tell me, sir—has she means?”

The old man groaned—

“My lord, her father, when he sent her wardrobe, sent also a check for a thousand pounds. She placed the latter in my hands for our current expenses. I drew the money for it; but never could prevail on her to receive back a shilling of it. It remains untouched in my possession yet.”

“Then she has no funds at all! My Estelle! Oh! what will become of you!”

“Let me reflect—yes, she _has_ funds; she has a small competency in her own right; five thousand pounds left her by her grandmother; it is in the hands of a banker in London.”

“Then she has gone to London to draw it before leaving England. I may overtake and recover her yet! Oh! if I had known this precious fact three hours ago, I might then have gone after her by the noon train, and have been only twelve hours behind her. As it is, I must now wait for the midnight cars, and be a full day behind! Oh, Heaven! how difficult to govern one’s impatience and be calm in a forced inaction under such circumstances! But patience. I shall see her soon: all will be well. What is the name of the banker who has her funds?” inquired his lordship, taking out his tablets.

“Scofield Brothers, Lombard street, London.”

“Good-afternoon, sir. I am going to pack up for my journey,” said Lord Montressor, rising, and returning the memorandum to his pocket.

“Good-day, my lord. I would myself accompany you on this journey, but that my parishioners are in sad want of their truant pastor, and my old wife is impatient to see me.”

“I know it, I know it: it must be so—good-bye, sir. You have my everlasting gratitude for your kindness to Lady Montressor. Good-bye.”

“Stay one moment, my dear lord! You know the tenor of her note. Suppose when you find her, she still refuses to return with you? Excuse my question, for the sake of anxiety.”

“Should she still refuse—I should give her time, use reason, persuasion, prayer: should not these avail, I should then use _my power_. I should compel Estelle to return with me.”

“My lord?”

“Yes, I repeat it. She shall not sacrifice herself to fanaticism. I will constrain my love to come home and be at peace?”

Thus the two gentlemen parted: Mr. Oldfield to prepare for his return to his pastoral charge, Lord Montressor to make arrangements for his journey to London.

His lordship was at the depot in full time. The train started at twelve. Swiftly as he was carried forward, this seemed the longest ride and the longest night he had ever known. Some minutes less than two hours brought him to Bristol and the Grand Junction, where half an hour served for change of cars; and thus at half-past three o’clock, he found himself whirled along through night, and mist, and rain, on the route toward London. Soon the morning dawned and reddened in the east behind what seemed a bank of cloud; it was the mingled mist and fog that overhung the leviathan of cities.

The cars entered London from the West and reached the depot just as the sun arose. Lord Montressor took a hackney-coach and drove to a hotel in the immediate neighborhood of Lombard street. As it was now very early, some hours had yet to be lived through before he could hope to find the bankers at their place of business. He ordered an apartment, and got through the time as well as he could by making his morning toilet and attempting his morning meal. Directly after breakfast, he entered a carriage and drove to the banking-house of Scofield Brothers. He inquired for either of the owners, and was ushered into a back office where the junior partner sat writing at a desk.

“Good-morning, sir,” said Lord Montressor, advancing—“You are——”

“John Scofield, at your service,” answered the banker, rising.

“Lord Montressor.”

“Happy to see you, my lord. Pray be seated”—handing a chair. “Hope we may be able to serve you this morning?”

“I thank you, sir.”

Lord Montressor looked for an instant into the honest face of the banker, and then with the air of a man who states a fact known to himself, rather than one who asks information upon a subject, he said:

“Lady Montressor was with you yesterday?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And withdrew her deposits, of course?”

“She did, my lord.”

Lord Montressor paused. How to frame his next inquiry as to the whereabouts of Estelle, without exciting the astonishment and conjecture of the man to whom he spoke, was now the difficulty. However, the question must be put. Lord Montressor was not one to shrink; besides, what indeed was the importance of Mr. John Scofield’s surmises and speculations to Lord Montressor?

“Favor me with Lady Montressor’s London address, if you please, sir,” said his lordship, quietly.

It was not with surprise nor wonder, but with simple consternation, that the banker stood dumbfounded!

“Did you hear my question, Mr. Scofield?” asked Lord Montressor, after a pause.

“I beg pardon, my lord,” said the banker, in a tone and manner in which astonishment was modified by respect; “but I am unable to furnish you with her ladyship’s address. Lady Montressor has left England.”

It was an overwhelming annunciation! Yet Lord Montressor neither started nor exclaimed; he was a man of too much firmness and self-control to do either, and perhaps also he had been too well prepared for it by what had preceded it; yet it was a stunning blow; he felt it so; he looked again and steadily, almost with rude scrutiny, into the face of John Scofield. Yes, he thought he could trust that face and confide in the rectitude and discretion of that man;—he knew also that the banker could not be really ignorant of the great trial lately concluded at the Exeter Assizes;—for the rest he must have faith in him.

“Will you favor me with a few moments of private conversation, Mr. Scofield?” he inquired in a low voice.

“Certainly, my lord,” replied the banker, dismissing his clerk, and closing and locking the door behind him. “Now, my lord, I am at your service,” he concluded, returning and resuming his seat.

“You are of course aware, Mr. Scofield, of the painful scenes through which Lady Montressor—and myself,” (he added in that affectionate and generous spirit in which he ever wished to associate _himself_ in all that was distressing and humiliating in her life,)—“have lately passed.”

“I am aware, my lord,” replied the banker, gravely and respectfully dropping his eyes.

“But you do not know, perhaps, that Lady Montressor and myself have not passed one single moment alone together since our marriage; or that notwithstanding the perfect legality of the ceremony that binds us together, Lady Montressor considers it her Christian duty to reserve herself from my protection; and in order to do so effectually, has withdrawn herself from my knowledge. Now, I would know whither she has gone, if you, without a breach of confidence, can inform me.”

The banker who had listened in respectful sympathy to the words of Lord Montressor, now paused and reflected before answering—

“My lord, as Lady Montressor, of course, made no confidential communications to us, I do not know that any reason exists why I should not give you all the information upon this subject in my power.”

“I will thank you then, sir, to proceed.”

“The manner in which I learned that Lady Montressor was about to leave England was merely incidental, as my knowledge of her destination, is, I may say, barely inferential.”

“Proceed, sir, proceed.”

“Her ladyship came, early yesterday morning—much about this time, in fact,—to withdraw the funds she had in our hands. She required a portion of them in cash and the remainder in drafts upon some American house.”

“Then she has gone to America!” interrupted Lord Montressor, recollecting at that trying moment the fervent admiration with which poor Estelle had often spoken of the young Western Republic.

“Undoubtedly, my lord.”

“Go on, sir! pray, go on—when did she sail? Her voyage must have been very sudden! She must have chanced upon a ship about to leave port.”

“I think that quite likely, my lord. When she was about to leave us, she required that the money and drafts should be sent down to her at the Nelson’s Head before eleven o’clock, as she should leave the hotel at that hour. We had correspondents in New York and in Baltimore. I inquired of her ladyship upon which of these the drafts in her favor should be drawn, and she said—upon the Baltimore house. The money was sent in due season. Our clerk, who was intrusted with its delivery, saw Lady Montressor leave the hotel at eleven o’clock. And we know that the Princess, Captain Caton, sailed from this port at twelve, bound for Baltimore.”

“Then we are to infer that she went to Baltimore, though the fact wants confirmation. One piece of information more, sir,—the name of your Baltimore correspondents?”

“Sommerville and Son, Pratt street.”

“Do you happen to know, sir, when the next vessel sails for the United States?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Then I thank you for the assistance you have already given me. Good-morning, sir.”

“Good-morning, my lord. If we can be so happy as to serve your lordship in any capacity, pray consider us always at your orders.”

“I thank you, sir. Good-day.”

And thus the peer and the banker parted.

“Good Heaven! how very matured her plans must have been, and with what dispatch she must have carried them out!” thought Lord Montressor, as he left the banking-house of Scofield Brothers, re-entered his cab, and drove to St. Catherine’s Dock, to inquire for vessels bound for the United States. After a diligent search of several hours he found that there was no ship to sail for Baltimore in less than two weeks. The first that was expected to leave for that port was the Mercury, that would sail on or after the fifteenth of June.

Much disappointed, he returned to his hotel, called for writing materials, dashed off a hasty letter to Mr. Oldfield, detailing all that had happened, mailed it, called a cab, and drove rapidly to the Liverpool depot, which he reached just a few minutes before the cars left.

His errand to Liverpool was to learn whether within less than two weeks any vessel would leave that port for Baltimore. He discovered that there was one to sail in six days for Boston, one in a week to Halifax, and one in ten days for New Orleans. But as neither of these promised a quicker termination to his proposed voyage, or a speedier meeting with Estelle than did the chances of the Mercury, he turned from Liverpool in disappointment.

He took the night train to Bristol, where he was more fortunate in finding a vessel—the “Queen Charlotte”—that would sail for Baltimore on or after the tenth of June. Upon further inquiry at other ports, he found no more satisfactory prospect, and therefore he bespoke a passage on the Queen Charlotte.

He then went down to his seat in Dorsetshire, and employed the intervening time in making judicious arrangements for that voyage, which, could he have found a vessel about immediately to sail for the United States, he would certainly without any preparation have undertaken.

Withal, however, it was a weary, weary decade of days that passed before the tenth of June arrived, and Lord Montressor found himself on board the good ship Queen Charlotte.