FATAL TRUST
Twenty-one or two years before our story opens there resided in
Richmond, one of the beautiful suburbs of London, the Right Honorable
Warrenton Fairfield Vance, Marquis of Wycliffe, and who also possessed
another title; but of that more hereafter.
He was the eldest of the two children of a previous Warrenton Fairfield
Vance, whose strange will created so much discussion and remark at the
time of his death, several years before.
There were only two children, we have said, the present marquis and his
sister, who, 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 and rather perplexing way.
They were to descend to the eldest _legitimate_ child of each
generation, be it son 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 case 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 eldest child.
For instance, if the present Marquis of Wycliffe 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 to the crown, and the personal property to the enrichment of
several public charitable institutions mentioned in the will.
The Marquis of Wycliffe, at the time we speak of in the beginning of 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 heartless coquette when quite a young man, before coming into his
property, and for many years he could not endure the thought of
marriage. But he had at length wedded a gentle, lovable girl of good
family, and she had given birth to this little daughter, and no more
children were granted them.
It had been a great disappointment to the marquis that this child was
not a son; but the little Marion Vance was a very beautiful and charming
little piece of humanity, although exceedingly high-spirited and wilful,
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, and 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 budding of so much beauty and joy should, in the
blooming, be marred and blighted by grave and fatal mistakes.
During the 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 County.
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 Vance 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 alluring
future prospects.
“I shall be so much happier not 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 in doubt as to the propriety 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
I am my Lady This and my Lady That, until I hate the word, and long to
get out of my straitjacket and enjoy a little freedom,” sighed the fair
pleader, coaxingly.
There was no resisting the insinuating tones, the sweet blue eyes, and
the pretty, pouting mouth; so for eight short, happy weeks the child of
the aristocratic Marquis of Wycliffe 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
County.
The Honorable Andrew Surrey’s residence was a most charming one,
overlooking the sea, and that year it was christened by the surrounding
neighborhood “The Home of the Nymphs,” in honor of the charming beauties
residing there.
But dire calamity and 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 it 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
Sumner.
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 of him, 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 that 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 Surreys, intent upon their own beaux 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 mere friendship.
Marion, too, with wonderful tact, disguised her feelings, for Mr.
Sumner, and, for various unexplained reasons, had insisted that their
love for each other must for the present be kept a profound secret; but,
with the fire and impulse which made up her nature, she gave her whole
heart up into his keeping, and learned only when it was too late the
heartlessness and treachery of which her lover was capable and she the
victim.
George Sumner, 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 be spent somewhere, and he had drifted in an aimless
way to the neighborhood, 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
left so long to the tender mercies of a careless governess.
He never dreamed that she was other than she pretended to be—simply
Marion Vance, with neither dowry nor position in life. But _his_ wife,
when he married, must possess something more substantial than a pretty
face and winning manners—she must have wealth and position in order to
satisfy the ambitious desires of the aspiring Mr. Sumner.
But Marion, fondly believing that he loved her for herself alone,
drifted carelessly and happily along with the tide, and, being of a
somewhat romantic turn of mind, resolved to enjoy till the very last
this simple love-making, and, when she had fully tested the strength and
devotion of her valiant knight, come out grandly and declare who she
was, thus surprising and rewarding him abundantly for his fidelity.
Silly child! Fatal trust!
Like the cunning spider, he wove his net firmly about her, and then left
her to die by inches in its cruel toils.
Before six weeks of her visit had passed he had enticed her into a
secret marriage, sighing sweetly of “love in a cottage” and the
“devotion of a life-time;” and Marion too blissfully happy to stop to
look into the future, and enjoying the novelty and romance of her
position in being so tenderly loved for her own bright self, never
dreamed of the abyss into which she was plunging with such headlong
speed.
They were married one still summer night, in a little chapel in a
neighboring 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 ceremony 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 of 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, and then papa must be told of
our marriage. I supposed, of course, you would go with me, and we could
confess it together,” Marion opposed.
Mr. Sumner frowned at this remark, then looked troubled and perplexed.
“I cannot go with you now; my summons is positive. You will have to be
patient and wait awhile until I can come to you,” he answered, as
indifferently as though he had not been plotting the cruelest wrong in
the world.
“But I want the matter settled. I want papa to see you, and I also
wanted to tell you——”
She stopped, resolving that she would not tell him of her future
prospects until they could confess their secret marriage to her father.
“It cannot be just yet,” he said, impatiently, and not 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 in his arms, and winding her own around his neck.
“What else should I love you for, little one?” he returned; and 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 laugh, 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 little one? Have we not been happy as the
day is long?” he asked, evasively.
“You are _sure_ you do not regret, George?” she persisted; and now the
blue eyes were lifted anxiously to read his face.
“No, I do not regret,” he said; and the sickening horror with which she
afterward remembered 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 secret until he could come himself and tell her father.
As his letters would arouse suspicion if sent directly to Wycliffe 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 the office.
Marion went home to Wycliffe to wait for his 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 appearance, 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 lusterless 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 an 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
distressing appeal, and she wept and moaned almost constantly, admitting
no one to her presence, and scarcely leaving 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
Mademoiselle Dufrond would be more particular henceforth.
“Mademoiselle 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; I am sick,” she said; and, unheeding the angry
remonstrance that followed, she left Wycliffe the day following the
marquis’ departure, and told no one whither she was going.