“Young De Marke,” answered the girl, drawing close to her aunt, and speaking in a whisper; “but do not let any one know; he said I might tell you, but no person else.”
“Catharine Lacy, this is a shameful falsehood, or young De Marke is base beyond anything I ever heard of. Wretched girl, I have quite as good proof as you can bring that you are not his only victim. But where is this man now?”
“He is away. I have not seen him since last fall. He does not know how miserable I am. Aunt, dear aunt, have pity on me; I have just come from the hospital—my poor baby is dead and buried.”
“Hospital! what hospital? Not Bellevue? not the Almshouse?”
“Yes, the Almshouse, aunt. Where else could I go? He was away, and if he wrote, I never got the letter. His mother turned me out-of-doors, with bitter language and coarse abuse. I was afraid to come here.”
“But if you were married, how dare Madame De Marke treat you in this way?”
“She pretended not to believe me—though I am sure he told her of our marriage with his own lips. She was angry because I would not let her keep my certificate, and said it was all made up.”
“Where did this marriage take place?” inquired the aunt, quickly.
“In Philadelphia. He went there when Madame was away from home a week. She did not know of it.”
“Let me read the certificate,” said the aunt, extending her hand; “if that is genuine, I will see that the rights of my relative are respected, let what will have gone before. This young man must inherit a fine property, De Marke was very rich. The certificate of marriage, girl. What are you waiting for?”