She gave him the very best education that her means would allow; and, being naturally bright and talented, he was at seventeen far in advance of other youths of his age. Marion’s health now began to fail, and it soon became evident to her that all that remained to her of life would be a very brief span.
As she grew weaker day by day, she became greatly depressed in her mind regarding the past and its connection with her son’s future, and at last she called him to her and told him all the sad story of her life; and all his outraged manhood, all his deep and tender love for her, arose in arms as he listened.
“Mother!” he cried, his head thrown back, his eyes flashing fire, his nostrils dilating, his lips quivering with indignation, shame, and wounded pride, “I will find the man—no, I cannot call him a man—the brute who dared to do so vile a thing, and I will brand him the traitor and the coward that he is.”
“My son, never forget that vengeance belongs to a mightier arm than your own—never forget that you belong to a noble race; and even though you may never claim your kindred, let your life testify to the respect you bear for the blood which flowed in your mother’s veins,” was all the reply which Marion vouchsafed to his boyish outburst of anger.
“Ah! my dear, gentle little mother,” he said, kissing her wasted hands, “you always teach me to do right; but I bear my kindred no love; they have cruelly wronged you. I think I cannot even respect that man whom you say is my grandfather, even though he be the Marquis of Wycliffe. How could he have driven you forth from your home in such bitterness?”
“You do not realize the cruel disappointment it was to him to have his hopes thus ruined. If I had not been so blind and foolish in my love, you would now be the heir of all his proud possessions. I have wronged you also, my noble boy,” she sighed, in bitter pain.
“Do not think of it, dear mother. It was not your fault; you were cheated and ruined by a designing villain. Oh, that I may meet him some day!” he cried, all the blood of his noble ancestors running riot in his veins.
He was very handsome, and his mother told him that he looked like his grandfather, the Marquis of Wycliffe, which to him, in his bitterness against his treatment of her, sounded like very tame praise.
“Mother,” he burst out one day afterward, “have you one particle of affection remaining for—that man?”
“No, my dear. That was crushed; all my wild love was burned to ashes that night when, in my misery, he turned from me, and I went out alone to battle with my shame.”