EARLE WAYNE'S NOBILITY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVIII, Issue 6063, 23 April 1881, Page 2

EARLE WAYNE'S NOBILITY.

Author_ol:" Sibyl's Inaaonco" th. «v V CHAPTER XX A MYSTERIOUS DISArPEAEAXCE" With a wildly beating heart, and dil,« f frightened eyes, Editha looked u£ J i ?"& the sidewalk, hoping to 'catch : °&tafe* . friendly pohcernau again. fa ot 4il e I But ho; was nowhere to be seen, and tW J were very few people to be either scenn" *' heard; everyone Who was to have a shelter having sousht ;& rLi .8 h against the storm. fc 8 * ,ts Infection Drawing her cloak close about her ar,l calling all her resolution to her aid; ah ' .?*} her way, half expecting that ate\££ JK some hornblo creature would rise ~t ■ 5 confront her, demanding the^ou? .* ; heart S ° ' e er a - But no such person was in sight- ami „ one appeared to be following her? and cah, ing courage from the fact, she gr ew ' 5,™" catin and began to.breathe morf freely S she almost flew over the way ** She had nearly gained a more public street where slie could see the friendly lights nHm - raering and beckoning her on, aid wW once reached, she intended taking a carhop' Her courage arose with every sten • *b had only one more low, ill-looking buildine T n pass, then an open space, before she wo'ulif he where no possible harm conld come to her heart beat lightly and cried ont within her ', J "u Vl ? tOr: s ! vi <* or y/' -for-noTT-Eart™ i would be free from all tamt or suspicion; he could hereafter proudly face thewhole WoiM *nd no one would dare to point the fineernf scorn at him again. 6 -. How happy she would bo to be able to irive him' this evidence when lie should she had never dared to think that she wonld be the one to bestow upon him such ing joy. and . sho hugged to her bosom with a -■' ■ strange feeling of exultation the clcelvpencilled paper that was to 'accomplish ail this. :. , - ... The low building was nearly '. passed—two minutes more and she would be— Safe .' she would have added ; but a sudden shock prevented her ever finishing the inter- }■ rupted thought. ; . . .;■■; . * ' A heavy hand dropped upon her shoulder like the slroke of a hammer, aud a fierce voice whispered in her ear : '; : '.. p 5 "Make no noise and I trill do you no harm* '" scream once, and I'll choke-you; but I must ■ have that paper that John Loker signed for you!". . . ■■-.-•,• She knew the instant she felt the touch of that hand—before even a word was uttered < - who it was that had captured-her therein the darkness and rain. -':-:.- :: > She,did not need the aid of a light to know that a burly head, with flaming red hair, and an 'ugly face, with a scar under the right eye, and an ear with, part. of the "lobe gone' towered above her; she could almost feel that the hand lying so heavily upon her was minus a portion of the little finger, and a shudder ran through her as it flashed upon her how much of crime that hand was guilty of, and might bp stained even more deadly, yet, before it should be removed from her. , ■■' The sudden shock seemed to paralyze her for the moment, so that she was powerless to resist; she conld not have cried "out, even if ■ his threat had not intimidated her, so terrible was the fright she sustained! '■ "I wil do you no injury, Editha .Dalton; but I must have that paper ; . and be quick about it, too," the man repeated, in low tones. Give up that precious paper voluntarily that treasure worth move to her than her whole fortune !..... . ■' Give up all the evidence there was in tli« world that Earle Wayne wa3 an innocent, injured, aud long-suffering man ! Never! • • ■ Her whole soul arose at once to arms to do valiant battle for her noble. lover and his ! honour. " J She had been fearful and trembling all the > way from John Loker's house to this spot, dreading at every step lest she should meet this very foe. Now that the danger was encountered, and she, a frail, delicate' girl, was' actually in the power of a desperate villain, and not a j person within hearing- to help her, she "grew j suddenly calm, her brain clear and quick, j and keen to think, her nerves steady to act. " How do you know that I have any paper signed by John Loker?" she quietly demanded. She knew well enough how, but she asked the question to gain time. The man laughed a short, scornful laugh; then he said : ". ;". "You are a brave little woman, and a good actress, "and there was-, a note of admiration in his voice as he spoke. "You thought I did not see you glance up at the window back of John Loker's bed half an hour ago, "he went on, in quick, low tones; "you did not scream nor make any fuss as most women would have done on seeing a face like mine peering-in upon them ;■ you knew it was your only chance to get the evidence that would clear an innocent man from the suspicion of a crime; you showed a plucky spirit, Miss Dalton, to sit there and ■write so quietly, when you knew Tom Drake's ucly face was looking down upon you. But J did you think I would let you get away vrith that evidence? Not much—my business is too profitable to be stopped by having my likeness displayed to the world, even though it was taken by a hand as pretty as yours. So make haste and pass it over," ho said, not unkindly, for her dauntless spirit had really inspired him with admiration for her. "You cannot have it," Editha said, firmly, while sho made au effort to free herself from the grasp of her captor. The nest instant she would have screamed for help in spite of his threat, but he, anticipating this, threw one powerful arm around her slight form, placing his other hand at the same time firmly over,'lier.mouth,'and lifting her from her feet as as if she had been a child, he. carried her : within the shadow oE a doorway in the low building before referred to. y Once there he set her down oipon her again, though he still kept her mouth' 'firmly . covered with his hand. " I've got to have it, d'ye 'hear?" he said, fiercety, "if not by fair means, why, then, by foul. I've no wish to harm you, and if you'll give it up quietly I'll let you go; if you won't, it will be the worse for yon, that's all. "Will you give it up ? nod your head if you mean yes." liditha could scarcely breathe, his hand was so heavily pressed over her mouth and nostrils, and she was absolutely powerless in tho strong man's grasp. Sho knew she was at his mercy, but she knew also that lie could not get possession of her treasure 'without removing his.hand from her face, which would give her an advantage over him, because she conld call for help. - r So, instead of nodding her head as.be had commanded her to do, she resolutely signified her defiance by a decided shake,.; . ..; The man uttered a round oath at this. Evidently he had not anticipated any such determined resistance, arid for'a moment he appeared undecided what to do. "I'd like to strangle what little life there is left in that traitor out o£ hini," he muttered, angrily, referring to John Loker. His sentence was hardly completed when he uttered a suppressed howl. Editba's white teeth had suddenly closed over the fleshy part of his palm with a force that made him oringe with pain, and at the same time remove something of the pressure over her month . . Taking advantage of this, she threw back her head with a violent motion, and sent forth a shrill cry for help. The cry was her salvation, aud help was nearer than either of them .thought. A quick, firm tread soon sounded unon the pavement, and then the tall form of a'policeman became visible close at hand. The villain saw that his "game was up," and the wisest thing for him to do would be to get out of the way, and with another fierce oath he released his hold upon his victim, and beat a hasty and inglorious retreat, vowing vengeance upon her in the future. With succour at hand, and the disappearance of her captor, Editha's courage and • strength failed her utterly. Her nerves had received a terrible shock, for which she of necessity had. now to pay the penalty. ."....,., She did not faint, nox , go into hysterics, ncr make any other disturbance, but she clung in speechless terror and trembling to the sturdy policeman who had come.to her aid... "Are you hurt, miss? Did the.'villain dare to hurt you ?" he asked;' sternly.-." "No—not much—but, oh ' Ho frightened me terribly," she whispered, shaking as with tho ague, and her teeth chattering audibly. ■" Poor thing ! poor thing! this is-a bad. place for such as you to bo in," he answered,

/ .. . ■ '- ~■ ' . ■";■' (i eS- — 7- v ~0l ofrpnt • but there was a scrimn^S 6 . i oo king for you as I came ButI W f k a wVsuspected at bnce that it iIOD | o a wneul hoar! you cry but. Did the : T hid and I wouldn't give it to him. knoij l nji-, ,„ . pcatecl the policeman, inutile chuckle aAer spirit and resolute

1 to "qhould you know him if you should ever ' in™ that it would be impossible erer to feehng that a . £$§*£ at t£ window in John Loker's * "iafwU beginning to recover her * n, Tnil signified her readiness to go on accompany her. She ■ iWgrt away from the dismal place, I Imffeltas if she would never dare enter a * wwonce more in her own luxurious home, ■ thankful for her escape from a ruffian' 3 power. . . Mr Dalton expressed some surprise at her telng'out so late; remarked with so.no -in-' Sffference that she looked pale, and asked if h? was not well, and then added that dinner I mI been waiting for. more than half-an-hour. .She simply replied that she was well, and '■■ ■ regretted that he should have waited dinner ■ for her, but she had been unavoidably, de--1 Dalton knew, that she must keep ; j ier " own counsel regarding that evening's ■ adventures. . ■ ~ ' : The time had come when she could not trust her dearest interests in the hands of her , father, She knew he had no sympathy with her regarding the : confession she. had obtained ° and would oppose, rather ;than aid h er in making it public to vindicate Earle: But she had resolved to go to Mr. leltou on the morrow, put the precious _evidence_m Ui3 hands, and be guided by his ever wise counsel. ■ • . . : - • ■■■-■-■. She retired to her own rooms as,soon as; dinuer was despatched, and immediately set herai'li to work to make a\ careful, copy , of: John Loker's confession to send to Earle. Aud then with something of the fear creeping over her that she had experienced while in Tom Drake's power,.. sh&. looked around for a safe place in; which to hide the. oricuial. She would not take it below.and pat it in the safe, for she knew that ;burglars were not troubled nowadays about opening jaoh things, let them have ever so compli- ; cited a lock, and she could not sleep until it Was safely disposed of somewhere. ; "What shall I do with.it?" she flushed cheeks and anxious brow. "Something tells me that I must hide it even for to?To drawer with any common lock would be a safe place, she reasoned. She could not keen it about her person, and for a long time it wa3 a matter that caused her much perplexity. All at once her eyes lighted. ' In her jowel-box, which was quite a large one, there was a raised velvet cushion, with places on it for the different articles of jewellery she was in the habit of. wearing. This cushion was securely glued to the bottom of the box. What omen of .impending evil could have inspired Editha with the idea that underneath this would be a safe -place to hide her evidence ? She carefully pryeddt from the box, folded the papers just to tit the bottom, tten pressing the cushion firmly back into its place,, she once more arranged her jewels in their accustomed position, and then, .apparently satisfied witii her work, she resumed her jeat and began" to write an account of her adrentures to her dear one across the sea. ' It is said that "coining events cast their shadows before;" whether this be true or hot I cannot say, but one thing is certain, ind that ; is, .th.aii.it was well for Earle Wayne's honour that Editha Dalton was guided by her impressions to so adroitly conceal John Loker's confession just where she did, and just when she did. The next morning Editha did not make her appearance at .the breakfast-table. This was something unusual, for the young jjirl had always made it a point, ever since Sirs. Dalton's death, 'to •be " neatly - and attractively dressed aud in her place opposite her father promptly every morning upon the ringing of the breakfast-bell. Mr. Dalton, angry at thus.being obliged to wait two successive meals for her, curtly ordered a servant to go and awake her, and tell he'r he was waiting for her. '• The girlhastened to do his bidding, but soon returned with pale aud affrighted face, say : ing that Miss Editha was not in her chamber —her bed had not beeii occupied during the night, and that both sitting-room and bedroom were in the direst confusion. '■-' Hi". Dalton was of course instantly alarmed at this startling intelligence, and hastened at once to investigate the matter. ' He fonnd it was even worse than the girl: had stated. Drawers,. boxes, and closets hid been overturned aud emptied of their :contents, and lay scattered.in every direction .'upou'the floor, chairs,'arid bed. ' ['.".-.''■ 1 "Cloihing had been, unfolded, shaken' out, and then thrown hastily aside ; dresses were lying over chairs, with their pockets turned inside out and rifled of their contents.' Editha's costly writing-desk was overturned 'upon the floor, her letters and papers' 'scattered in'every direction, and then it was for the first time that Mr. Dalton knew for a certainty of her correspondence with Earle,: "for stooping down to pick up these lettei-s! : he had gathered lip with, others those that the young man had sent across tlie S'3a to her: '■■•', ' ;"■ .■''."'"', ' ; " '..':.' •

.Never had those beautifnl rooms bejnin dire confusion before, and nothing seemed to be missing but Editha's jewellery, which had been taken from 1 its box, and 1 tho.t was left standing; empty and open, in i(3 accustomed place, and - a very, common hat and circular waterproof, which she had in the habit of wearing ' in' stormy weather. ' ' ' Editha herself was gone—that was evident, and no one appeared to know when nor 'whither. ■ Mr. Dalton was nearly stupefied at first, and the thought flashed upon him that she might have fled to Earle. • ; But-he soon : dismissed this idea, for he knew her character well enough to know - that if she was bound to marry Earle Wayne ahe would- do it boldly, openly, and in defiance of the whole world ; moreover, she never would have gone away voluntarily and left thing* in that style, taking nothing with lier for her own comfort or needs. No, it was a deep and incomprehensible mystery. - . '■ ■ ■ Days and weeks were devoted to the search for her. Detectives were employed, the police were notified, and advertisements were inserted in all the leading papers, but all without avail; no clue could be gained as to the whereabouts of the missing girl, and Mr. Dalton was at last left entirely alone and desolate in his beautiful home. Only one thing was discovered that seemed • to have any bearing on the matter, and that •was her adventure with the unknown ruffian after her visit to John Loker's house. The policeman who had rescued her pave an account of what he knew of the matter, : and then Mr. Daltou went himself to see the wretched family, thinking perhaps some further information might be gleaned from them. ■ , But John Loker had died the day following Editha's visit there, and after the funeral the family had disappeared, and no one knew anything of them. ■ To say that Mr. Dalton was not extremely ■distressed over the strange affair would be rery unjust to him. : He availed himself of every possible means to solve the dreadful mystery; but, as we have already seen, he was an utterly selfish ! ..man, and it was not in his nature to brood over anything either troublesome or disagree- | - able; and the. source from which he at length I drew consolation may perhaps be revealed by the following soliloquy with himself, as he sat one night in the library, considering the proa and cons of the future. "If anything —ah—fatal—should have— happened to Editha ; if she should not be—living, her—fortune then will be—mine, I suppose." ' '" ■ . And even while he spoke a strange look gettled over his face, there was a queer quaver in his voice, and he was as white as the immaculate tie which he wore about his neck. CHAPTER XXI. FATAL TRUST. Twenty-one or two years betore our story opens, there resided in Richmond, one of the beautiful suburbs of London, the Right Honorable Warrenton Fairfield Vance, Maro£ "VVyclifFe, and who also possessed S. another title ; but of that more hereafter. ' , : , ' He waa the eldest of the two children of a previous Warrenton. Eairfield Vance, whose ». strange will created so much, discussion and remark at the time of his death, several •,yeawbefore. ...'. ". were only two children, we have said I^iie',

although considerably younger than himself, had married, very early in life, a man of literary profession, though of a wealthy and respectable family—Tressalia by name. She had one child, a son,' Arthur Tressalia, and father of the Paul Tressalia of our story. Arthur Tressalia died when his son Paul was only three years of age, and his'grandmother, the marquis , sister, two years afterward. ■ The old marquis' will, before referred to, had entailed his estates in a very peculiar 1 &nd rather perplexing way. ...... They were to descend to the eldest legitimate child of each generation, be it sou or daughter. ; In case it should be a daughter, it was stated that, upon her marriage, her husband would be obliged to assume the family name, and so perpetuate the race. In ca.",o the eldest child died without issue, or gave birth to an illegitimate child, the, entail would be cut off from that branch of the family, and revert in the same way to the next oldest child. -■ '

For instance, if the present Marquis of Wyeliffe died without legitimate issue, the estates, title, and name would descend to his sister, Mrs. Tressalia, and her legitimate heirs, according to the provisions of the will. ■ In the event of an utter ■ failure of legitimate issue, the estates would fall lo the crown, and the personal property to the enrichment of several public charitable institutions mentioned in the will. The Marquis of Wycliffo, at the. time we speak of in the beginning oE the chapter, had one child, a daughter, sixteen years of age. ~■ ' . . " .■. ' ■ He had not married until long after his sister, having been disappointed by a heart-, less coquette when quite a young man, before coming into his property, and for many years he could not endure the thought of marriage. . : But ho had at length wedded a gentle, lovable girl of good family, and she had given birth to this little daughter, and no iuore children were granted them.,' c ; It had been a great disappointment; to the Marquis that this child had not been a son; but the little Marion Vance was a very beautiful and charming piece of humanity, although exceedingly high-spirited and wil- ; ful, as will be seen ere long. ' .; Her mother had died when she was only ; twelve years of age, after which she was left to the care of a not too conscientious governess, who enjoyed her own ease and ! reading French novels more- than she did the training of her wild and rebellious pupil. Thus the motherless girl was left to come up pretty much after her own will, aud it is not so much to be wondered at that, with no wise and tender hand to guide, no warning voice to chide, counsel, and direct, her future should be planted with thorns, and that the life which gave promise in - its buddiug of so much beauty and joy, should, in the blooming, be marred and blighted by grave and fatal mistakes. I

During tho summer of Marion Vance's sixteenth year, the marquis permitted her to visit some distant relatives of the family living at Rye, near the sea, in South Sussex. These relatives consisted of father, mother, and four gay, blooming daughters, the latter as full of fun and mischief as ■ the day is long; and no one was ever known, up to this time, to visit the Surrey mansion and go away without regretting the bright days that had flown all too quickly. . We have said that Marion Ynnce was wilful, and a little incident will serve to prove our assertion. Upon reaching her destination on this eventful summer, the obstinate little marchioness elect had insisted upon being introduced into the society frequented by the Surrey family as plain Miss Vance, devoid of either title or any particularly alluriug future prospects. i; "I shall l>e so much happier EOt to be hampered with all the forms and ceremonies that are so irksome at home, and which papa is so tenacious of," said the little lady, as she persistently argued her point with the family. "But I am iu.doubt as to thepropriety of such a proceeding for that very reason— your papa would not approve," demurred Madam Surrey, disliking to refuse the bright girl's request, yet fearing, even more, to offend the marquis. . ■ "Ah, please let me be happy in my own way for a : little' while. At home lam my Lady This and my Lady That, until I hate the word, and long to get out of my strait-jacket and enjoy a little freedom," .sighed the fair pleader, coaxirigly. . '. .■ . There was no resisting the insinuating tones, the sweet blue eyes, and the pretty, pouting mouth, so for eight short, happy weelts the child of the aristocratic Marquis of Wyeliffe was simply Miss Marion Vance, and a merrier quintette than those five—Kate, Ida, Caroline, and Isabel,' with Marion—made could not have been found elsewhere in all South Sussex. . . :

The H ouourable Andrew Surrey's residence; was a most charming one, overlooking the sea, and that year it was christened by the; surrounding neighbourhood " The Home of the .Nymphs," in honour of the charming beauties residing there. _ j But dire calamity anil sorrow were destined to overtake these beautiful and careless nymphs ere their summer holiday, begun with so much of happiness and. promise, should end, and the memory of if was the means of saddening their whole after life. During one of their many excursions and picnics, Marion Vance made "the acquaintance of a young man, who was introduced to her as Mr. George Snmner. . He was about twenty-two years of age, not handsome, nor even fine-looking, but* possessed of a singular fascination of manner that attracted her from, the very first. He was introduced by a young man who was somewhat attentive to Miss Kate Surrey,' and who had met him at the German University, where he was studying. He knew nothing ofJiiin, beyond that he always had plenty of money, and report said he was to fall heir to great possessions upon the death of some aged relative. He had been well received at the university, and it was supposed he belonged to a highly respectable family, and he..was consequently; admitted into the best of society there. Marion Vance, with her fresh young heart, her susceptible nature and impulse, was not long in learning to love this fascinating stranger, which feeling Mr. Sumner appeared to reciprocate, and before half of her visit had expired he was secretly her declared lover. . . The gay Misses Surrey, intent upon their own beaus and pleasures, were culpably heedless of the mischief that was brewing in their midst, and of the toils which were being so cunningly woven around their fair young visitor. , They were all older than Marion, and should have guarded her against the constant attentions of any one. Madam Surrey, amid her.many household cares, could not always attend them upon their excursions, and whenever she did accompany them she never dreamed that beneath the quiet and polite attentions of Mr. Sumner to Marion there lurked any deeper feeling than that of nitre friendship. Marion, too, with wonderful tact, disguised her feelings ; for Mr. Sumner, for unexplained reasons, had insisted that thuir lore for each other must for the proseut be kept a profound secret, but with the fire and impulse which made up her nature, Ehe gave her whole heart up into his keeping, and learned ouly when it was too late the heartlcssness and treachery of which her lover was capable and she the victim. George Sumuer on his own part had no other motive in winning the affections of this beautiful and trusting girl than his own selfish enjoyment of an idle summer's day. His vacation must bo spent somewhere, and he had drifted in an aimless way to this neighbourhood, having heard of its beauties in the way of scenery and its advantages as a summer resort. Marion was beautiful in looks, gay and attractive in manner, and just such a girl as he liked to flirt with, but as for ever marrying and acknowledging her as his wife, he had not such a thought. He supposed her a simple country girl, defective in education and knowledge of social customs—as, indeed, the poor child was, having been loft so long to the tender mercies of a careless governess. He never dreamed that she was other than she pretended to be—simple Marion Vance, with neither dowry nor position in life. But his wife, when ho married, must possess something more substantial than a pretty | face and winning manners ; she must have wealth and position in ordor to satisfy the ambitious desires of the aspiring Mr. Sumner. Bnt Marion, fondly believing that he lovod her for herself alone, drifted carelessly and happily along with the tide, and, being of a somewhat romantic turn o'; mind, resolved to enjoy till the very last thin simple love-mak-ing and when she had fully tested the atrenath and devotion of her valiant knight, come out grandly and declare who she was, thus surprising and rewarding him for his fidelity. Silly child 1 Fatal trust! i • U Like the cunning spider, he wove his ne u firmly about.her, and then left her to die by {inches in its cruel toils.- ; ,■,'T : . ... '■-'■. ■ ■■/ *

i . Before six weeks of her visit.had passed ho had enticed her into a secret marriage, sigh-, ing sweetly, of "love.in, a cottage", and.the S , devotion of a lifetime ;" and Marion, too blissfully .happy to stop to look into, the future,; andenjoyiug the novelty and romance of her position in being so tenderly loved for her own bright: self, never dreamed of the abyss iiito, which she wa3 plunging with such headlong speed. .: , They were married one still summer night, in. a. littleehapel in a neighbouring town, by an aged minister, who, somewhat to the surprise and annoyance of Mr. Sumner (who had no idea of carrying the sacrilege so far), gave into the.young bride's hands at,the close of the ] cer.emony a certificate of that transaction. ; :•■■■... . ~ , : .

But when the time came for her return to her father, Marion began to fear she had made : a great mistake, and grave questions began to suggest themselves for answering. . . How would the proud and aristocratic marquis receive the knowledge of her marriage ?.■ . . : .

How would he regard the son-in-law who would stoop to win and marry his daughter in this underhanded and clandestine manner ? During the last week p£ her stay at Rye; Mr. Sumner informed her that he had received an imperative summons away on business. ..'.'But, George, I must go home next week,, audithen papa must be told of our marriage.; I supposed, of course, you would go with me, and we could confeas it together," Marion opposed. ; ■ -.....; . i Mr. Sumner frowned at this remark, then, looked troubled and. perplexed. ... ..'..:.-! ' f I cannot go with you now ; mysummons is positive. < You will have to be patient and wait awhile until J. can come to -you, V he answered, as indifferently as though he had not been plotting the cruellest wrong, in the world. ..;,-. ■ . ■ -. . . 'IBut I want the matter settled. .'I want papa to see you, andJLalsu. -.WAUted to tell you—" She stopped, resolving that : she would not teiriiim of her future prospects until they : could; confess, their secret marriage to her father. '~'.. .'..'. , "It cannot be just yet," lie said','impatiently, and riot heeding her interrupted sentence. "My business must;be.attended' to. and our secret can wait,a.little longer." . '•You are sure, you love, me only for my very self, George?" she,asked, nestling iiihis armsi and winding her own around his neck. ■ "What else should I love you for, little one ?" he returned ; arid well, it was for her peace of mind that she could not see the smile of scorn that curled his lips at her question. . She laughed a merry, happy laiigh, thinking how proud she should, be 'when he returned to her, and she should tell him that she was the child of a marquis and heiress to almost unlimited wealth. ,

" And you do not regret what we have done?" she asked, laying her golden head upon his breast, with a gesture so full of confidence and love that a feeling of .startled fear stole over him for the moment.

. " What is there to regret, my pretty one ? Have we not been happy as the day is long ?" he asked, evasively. " You are sure you do not regret, George ?'.' shepersisted, and now the blue ,eyes were lifted anxiousiy to read his face. "No, I do not:regret," he said, and the sickening horror with which, she afterward remeriibered those words she never forgot as long as she lived. He would write to her often until he could come to her, he said, when she wept at parting, and agreed with her that their .marriage must be kept a profound secret until he could come himself and tell her father.

As his letters would arouse' suspicion if sent directly to WycliSe in her name, and as he was not known'at Richmond, he would' direct them to Mrs. George Sumner, and she could get them herself at theoffice. And thus they parted. Marion went home to Wyeliffe to wait for hia coming, and. growing to fear more and more,: as the days went by, that she had done very wrong, and her father would be very angry when he should discover it, but hoping that all would come right when she should be able to introduce her husband, and the marquis would be charmed as she had been by his fascinating manners and his brilliant power of conversation. But the weeks lengthened into- months, and though his letters came quite regularly, no George Sumner made his %ppearancc, or gave any hope that he should be able to do so for a good while to come. At last his letters ceased coming, and then indeed the poor child grew nearly wild with grief, fear, and anxiety. • ' ' ; She became pale and thin, her eyes lnstveless and heavy, while she spent-hours in her own rooms weeping and walking the floor, her hands clasped convulsively on her breast, her head drooping with its burden of anguish. ■..-.-. She wrote and wrote again with the same result, and at last, in despair, sent forth au appeal that ought to have melted the stoutest heart.

He must come to her, she said ; it was not possible that their marriage could be kept a secret any longer. They must tell her father and share the consequences as best they could. . .

She waited a, week, ten days, a fortnight, and no answer came to her despairing appeal, and she wept and moaned almost constantly, admitting no one to her. presence, and scarcely leaviutr her apartments. About this time the marquis was called away from home on business that would , occupy him for a week. Scarcely had he taken his departure when, with sudden resolution, Marion informed her governess that she also was going away for a few days. : Mademoiselle Dufrond at. once became very angry at this intimation. The marquis had recently expressed himself displeased that his daughter was not attending more closely to her studies, and desired that Mile. Dufrond would be more particular henceforth. "Mademoisoile must not go away, she reiterated. "Monsieur, her father, had explicitly said she must attend more closely to her studies." Study ! with that terrible burden pressing her down until she was almost crushed ! The child felt that she should scream aloud at the thought. "I cannot study ; lam sick, she said, and unheeding the angry remonstrance that followed, she left Wycliffe the clay following the marquis , departure, and told no one whither she was going. (To be contlnncd.]