and there were the dignified Sir Parke, the regal Lord Morelle, the haughty old Duchess of Graveminster and the splendid Lord Dazzleright. And there within the altar rails before the aisle stood the venerable Bishop of Exeter, between two assistant clergymen. And all—congregation, companions, and officiating ministers, were regarding with looks of admiration, affection, or pride, the presence of the beautiful bride.

The Bishop opened the book. And every whisper was hushed, and every eye reverently dropped as the venerable prelate, in a solemn voice, pronounced the first words of the imposing ritual.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together, here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman, in holy matrimony; which is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among all men; and therefore is not to be entered into unadvisedly, or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. Into this holy state these two people present come now to be joined.

“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever, hold his peace.”

The Bishop now made the usual solemn pause, during which not a breath seemed drawn in the silent church.

Though had any one been sufficiently near that ill-omened group in the shadowy corner pew, they might have caught the deep, hurried whisper of the woman—

“Attend you, Victoire!—listen, then, my son!” And the hissing reply of the man—

“Yes, Madame!—but mon Dieu! I wait!”

Meanwhile the rites proceeded—the grave voice of the prelate was pronouncing the question—

“George Charles, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others keep thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live?”

The Bishop paused.

And the bridegroom, fixing his eyes in unutterable love upon the downcast, beautiful face of his bride, in a deep, proud, tender voice responded—“I will.”

Then the same question being put to her, she lifted her large eyes for an instant to his, and a glow of ineffable devotion suffused her beautiful, dark face as she too breathed the same vow.

At the next question—“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”—Sir Parke Morelle stepped forward, took the hand of his daughter and placed it in that of the Bishop who transferred it to the hand of the bridegroom Lord Montressor received the cherished gift reverently, tenderly, with a deep inclination of his noble head, and a thrilling pressure of his clasping hand.

Then followed the putting on of the ring, and then the prayers, the valedictory, and finally the nuptial benediction.

The imposing solemnities were over.

And friends gathered around with blessings; and then came in turn, the grave, earnest, tender, gay or gallant forms of congratulations—as the officiating ministers, the father, mother, bridemaids and bridemen pressed around with many kind wishes.

This occasioned some considerable delay, in the midst of which the ominous party in the dark corner pew might have been observed to steal out and retire from the church.

“Enough! enough!” at length smilingly said Sir Parke, sympathizing with the blushing embarrassment of the recipient of all these compliments, and taking her hand and placing it upon the arm of Lord Montressor, who drew it closely to his side, bowed around to his friends, and turned to lead his bride from the church—a performance more easily to be wished than accomplished; for the people were now pressing out of the pews, and the aisles were choked up with the crowd. Thus their progress from the altar to the door was an alternate step and pause—a sort of stop-march. And thus a delay of more than half an hour intervened between the moment of their receiving the nuptial benediction and that of their issuing from the church door. As the church, the yard was crowded with people of all classes, eager to see the bride pass.

The whole party, including the officiating Bishop and clergymen, were expected to return to Hyde Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast; after which, Lord and Lady Montressor were to set out for his lordship’s castle in Dorsetshire, where they intended to pass the honeymoon.

The church-yard was so crowded that it was with great difficulty and after much hindrance that Lord Montressor’s carriage could be driven up. And with his shrinking bride upon his arm, and her friends around, he waited before the church door, until it drew up, and one of the footmen alighted, let down the steps and opened the door.

His lordship then bowed to his friends, and was about to hand his lady into the carriage, when a policeman, pressing through the crowd, placed himself between the carriage door and the bridal pair, intercepting their further passage, while he respectfully inquired—

“Which of these ladies, here present, bears the name of Estelle L’Orient?”

“No lady here bears that name; stand out of the way, sir,” said Lord Montressor, haughtily, while Estelle, with a half-suppressed cry, lowered her vail and leaned heavily upon his arm.

“Let us pass, sir!” repeated his lordship, sternly.

“Pardon me, my lord, if in the discharge of my duty I cannot obey your lordship,” answered the officer, who, in manners and address seemed much superior to his class.

“What mean you, then, sir?” gravely inquired Lord Montressor, while Estelle hid her face in the folds of her vail against his arm.

“My lord, I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Estelle L’Orient, and if I mistake not, this is the lady,” said the officer, indicating the bride by a respectful inclination of his head toward her.

“Yes! Mon Dieu, that is the woman!” exclaimed a shrill voice, coming from the little old dark and shriveled Frenchwoman, who stood at a short distance in the crowd.

“Eh! Mon Dieu, yes!—that is my woman!—that is my bride!—that is the wife of the felon!” exclaimed the vindictive looking Frenchman by her side, gesticulating the while like a madman.

A crowd of astonished faces now pressed closely upon the group, around the carriage door, before which stood the policeman. And through this crowd, as one having authority, now came Park Morelle, inquiring in haughty displeasure—

“What is the meaning of this delay? Good people, give way! My lord, in the name of Heaven put Lady Montressor into the carriage, and drive on! Let us get out of this! Why Montressor! Estelle! what the fiend is the meaning of all this?” exclaimed the baronet, perceiving now for the first time by the pale, corrugated brow of the bridegroom, the shuddering form and hidden face of the bride, the resolute bearing of the policeman, and the horrified looks of the people, that something—he guessed not what—was fearfully wrong.

“What is the meaning of all this? Montressor, why do you not speak?” he asked, in an agitated voice—when, turning haughtily upon the police-officer, he demanded.

“What is your business here?”

“Excuse me, Sir Parke Morelle, I am here on duty.”

“What duty, fellow?”

“I am charged with a warrant for the apprehension of one Estelle L’Orient.”

“Whom?” frowningly demanded the baronet.

“One Estelle L’Orient—this lady.”

“Out of the way, fellow! You are drunk, and richly deserve to be sent to prison. There is no such person here. Out of the way, I say, or I shall give you in charge!” exclaimed the baronet, losing all patience.

“Pardon me, Sir Parke, but I must execute my warrant,” persisted the man; then stepping forward, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of the bride, he said:

“Estelle L’Orient, I arrest you in the king’s name; you are my prisoner.”

“Sirrah!” thundered Sir Parke, striding forward and striking off from his daughter’s shoulder the desecrating hand of the policeman: “Are you frantic?—have you the least idea of what sacrilege means?—do you know what you are about?”

“Perfectly well, Sir Park Morelle. I am about to take this lady into custody,” said the officer, approaching his prisoner.

“Begone, fellow, or by Heaven! mad or drunk, you shall dearly rue your mistake.”

“Sir Parke Morelle mistakes; but he will not resist his majesty’s warrant,” said the man, drawing the instrument from his pocket; and, while the crowd pressed closer around in amazement and wonder, Sir Parke stood the picture of incredulous astonishment and rage; and Lord Montressor, with corrugated brow and compressed lips, continued to support the form of Estelle, who now stood with clasped hands, white face, and stony eyes, gazing upon the figure of the Frenchman as upon that of a phantom raised from the dead—the policeman unfolded and read the warrant.

County of Devon.—To the Constable of Hyde and all other peace-officers in the said county of Devon:

Forasmuch as Gabrielle L’Orient, widow, now in this said county, hath this day made information and complaint upon oath before me, George Bannerman, one of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and for the said county, that Estelle L’Orient, of the said county, on this Thursday of the first instant, at the parish church of the parish of Hyde, feloniously intermarried with George Charles, Lord Viscount Montressor, in and during the life of her husband, Victoire L’Orient, now living in these realms—these are, therefore, to command you, in his majesty’s name forthwith to apprehend and bring before me, or some other of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and of the said county, the body of the said Estelle L’Orient, to answer unto the said complaint, and to be further dealt with according to law. Herein fail you not at your peril. Given under my hand and seal, this first day of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ——.

The officer finished the reading, folded the document, returned it to his breast-coat pocket, and stood for a while waiting. No one, who had not seen, could imagine the consternation that held the assembled crowd in a trance of breathless silence. Sir Parke Morelle was the first to break the fearful spell.

“Madam!” he said, striding up and confronting his wretched daughter, whose conscious looks were the most alarming features in the case, “why do you not speak? If this is a conspiracy, expose it. Where is the wretch that has made this complaint?”

“Here, my lord! Behold me! I am that wretch. I depose—I witness, that Madam Estelle L’Orient is the wife of my son, Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” exclaimed the wicked-looking little French woman, whom Sir Parke now saw and recognized as the quondam governess of his daughter. Beginning to perceive the truth, the baronet turned upon his child and inquired, in a tone of suppressed fury—

“Madam, answer! What foundation is there for this trumped-up story?”

“It is true,” said the wretched Estelle, letting her arms fall by her side, and her chin drop upon her breast, with a look of utter despair.

“Do your duty, officer. Remove your prisoner. Take the feloness quickly out of my sight!” cried the baronet, nearly maddened by the shock that had so suddenly hurled his towering pride to the dust.

“Sir Parke! Sir Parke! in mercy, you will not abandon your child in her extremity,” pleaded Lord Montressor.

“By all the demons, sir, she is no child of mine! I renounce the wife of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” cried the baronet striding away.

“Sir Parke, for the love of God, look on her!” prayed Lord Montressor, laying his hand on the arm of the enraged father, and seeking to detain him.

“Release me, sir,” thundered the baronet, breaking from his clasp; “My carriage there, sirrahs! Where is Lady Morelle? Let her ladyship be summoned.”

“Lady Morelle has fainted, and has been conveyed into the church, my lord,” said the Duchess of Graveminster, who had remained standing in an attitude of stern and solemn haughtiness.

Sir Parke left orders for his carriage to come up, and then strode off in the direction of the church.

Lord Montressor sought to reassure the deserted and despairing woman at his side.

“Estelle, dear, suffering one, take comfort; all that a Christian man may do for you, in your extremity, shall be done by me; rely on me; I will never fail you.”

“Monsieur, the constable, look at that woman! She has no right to be on the arm of my lord. Do your duty! arrest her!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with vindictive haste.

“I fear I must not long delay, my lord,” interrupted the policeman, respectfully.

“One moment, officer, if you please. Madam, for the love of the Saviour, sustain this poor, stricken one, until I send a clergyman to attend her. Estelle, dearest, I must, for your own sake, leave you now. I go to send you proper aid. I will see you again at the magistrate’s—until then, farewell,” said Lord Montressor, gently withdrawing his sustaining arm, and laying her upon the half-repellant, haughty bosom of the Duchess of Graveminster.

“God forever bless you, my lord. Whatever becomes of poor Estelle, may God forever love and bless you!” murmured the poor girl, waving him adieu.

Lord Montressor hastened into the church and into the vestry, where the Bishop and assistant clergymen were taking off their robes.

“My lord, what has happened?” exclaimed the venerable prelate, almost appalled by the pale and haggard countenance and hurried and anxious manner of his lordship; while the two assistant clergymen approached and looked the wonder they forbore to speak.

Lord Montressor hastily and briefly related all that had passed; together with the history of the wretched marriage into which Estelle, while a child at school, had been inveigled by the designing governess and her unprincipled son, with the account of the crime, trial, conviction, and transportation of Victoire, the long separation, and the final published report of his loss in the wreck of ‘Le Duc D’Anjou,’ three years since.

“The warrant for her arrest was issued by Sir George Bannerman, a bitter enemy of her father. He must have taken the deposition and issued the warrant immediately after the marriage ceremony was concluded. He must have been on the premises for that purpose; for I saw his carriage leaving the church,” said his lordship.

“I saw Sir George himself in the church,” said the Reverend Mr. Oldfield, the elder of the two clergymen.

“In the church! then he witnessed the marriage, heard the solemn adjuration at its commencement, might have spoken, stopped the proceedings, and saved this most unhappy of ladies from her present misfortunes! Any but a malignant enemy would have interfered to save her! The case will probably go to trial and come up at the next assizes; but there I am sure an action cannot be successfully sustained against her. And if the course of this magistrate has been as I suspect, that fact will be a powerful weapon in the hands of her counsel; and will also go far to hurl Sir George Bannerman himself, from his seat on the bench. Meanwhile, however, the father of Estelle has abandoned her to her fate. I, unhappily, through my late relations to her, am disabled from directly protecting her, my known intervention would be far more likely to injure than to benefit her cause; but you, reverened sirs,” continued his lordship, turning toward the two assistant clergymen, “you, Mr. Oldfield and Mr. Trevor, are friends of her family. Your age, holy calling, and position, all constitute the most proper and desirable persons to stand in the relation of protectors to this most unfortunate lady. Go with her to the magistrate’s—will you not, sirs?”

The two ministers spoke together for an instant, and then Mr. Oldfield answered for both—

“Most willingly will we attend the lady, my lord; but had we not best object to a hearing before Sir George Bannerman, and demand that she be taken before some other and impartial justice of the peace?”

“Upon the whole, no sir; it will make little difference, in the end, and I think it best that this man should be allowed to show his hand,” said Lord Montressor; then tearing a leaf from a blank book on the table, writing a check for a thousand pounds on the bank of Exeter, and handing it to Mr. Oldfield, he continued, “Offer bail to any amount for her appearance at court; and then, Mr. Oldfield, I am sure that you will take this poor, shorn lamb to your fold, put her under the care of your excellent lady, and bid her trust God with the result.”

“We will certainly do all that can possibly be done for this poor child in her extremity; but—put up your check, my dear lord, for though you are her truest friend, it is not expedient that this good office should emanate from you,” said the venerable man.

“I believe you are right, sir; but what then can be done, since her father abandons her?”

Again the two clergymen conversed apart, and then Mr. Trevor spoke—

“We are not bankers, my lord, it is true; but we can afford to risk some hundred pounds apiece.”

“Risk, sir! There will be no risk—do you know Estelle, and imagine that she will not duly present herself for trial?”

“Certainly not—certainly not, my dear lord! The word was unhappily chosen. I meant merely that we might be held responsible for so much money.”

“Go now, dear sirs, to that poor girl, lest the Duchess of Graveminster think her ermine irremediably tarnished by holding any longer that blighted head upon her bosom. I will meet you at the magistrate’s.”

“Use my carriage, if no other is provided, Oldfield; I will find a seat in Lord Montressor’s, and be in attendance also,” said the kind-hearted bishop, whose sympathies had been strongly moved. The reverened gentleman thanked the bishop, and left the church in search of their unhappy charge. On reaching the yard they found that every carriage, with the exception of that of Lord Montressor and that of the Bishop of Exeter, had left the scene. Yes—parents, friends, acquaintances, bridemaids and bridemen, all had fled the place as though the plague were there. The Duchess of Graveminster had departed with the rest.

Estelle was left unsustained, leaning for support against the upright headstone of an humble grave, and guarded by the policeman.

The pitying clergyman approached her, laid his hand upon her bowed head, and gently said—

“Be not so utterly cast down, my child; raise your heart to Him who—when ‘all forsook him and fled,’ remained unshaken in his trust of his Father.”

But the grief-stunned girl seemed not to hear, or see, or be in any way conscious of the presence of the speaker; she remained wrapped in her white robe and vail, leaning over the tombstone, perfectly motionless, and might have seemed some risen ghost or descended spirit standing at the grave.

“Come, come, my child, look up, give me your hand, let me put you into the carriage; there are some necessary forms to be gone through, and then you are free; and you are to go home with me to Bloomingdale parsonage, for a visit, until your father feels better and comes for you, as he will.”

But still she neither moved, nor spoke, and might have seemed less a woman, or a spirit, than some draped marble statue.

“Come, my lamb, come,” pursued Mr. Oldfield, taking her cold and passive hand, drawing it within his arm, and leading her away.

Very docilely she suffered herself to be placed in the carriage, when Mr. Oldfield entered and took the seat beside her, and Mr. Trevor followed, and placed himself on the front cushion. The policeman mounted the box beside the coachman, and the carriage was driven off. Almost immediately after, the Bishop on Exeter and Lord Montressor entered the carriage of the latter, and followed on the same road.