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.