“But it is my duty to prove to you that such was the case, notwithstanding. May I ask your attention to some documents which I have in my possession?” and the lawyer, with great deference, drew forth a package from his pocket.
With an expression of incredulity upon his handsome face, Paul Tressalia drew up his chair to the table, to comply with his request.
He spread them before him, and immediately entered upon an explanation of their contents, going over them step by step until, in spite of his unbelief, the young marquis’ face grew grave, anxious, and perplexed, and he began to fear that his fair inheritance, his proud name and title, were in danger of being wrested from him after all.
He read the certificate signed so boldly by Joshua Grafton, bishop, and rector of St. John’s parish, and which had been given to Marion upon the completion of the marriage ceremony, and which also she had regarded only as so much worthless paper; yet some unaccountable instinct had always prevented her destroying it whenever she had been tempted to do so.
He carefully read those extracts which Marion’s son had made from the rector’s diary, and with which we are so familiar. He listened with painful interest to the repetition of the sexton’s story of his confession, and how he became a witness to the marriage ceremony, and he could scarcely credit his own sense of hearing as he heard the marvelous tale, and his better judgment told him that every word was true.
But when one is already suffering, as he was suffering, with his heart so sore and bitter, one’s natural antagonism and rebellion against the iron hand of fate is more easily aroused.
So it was now with Paul Tressalia; he had been obliged to relinquish his dearest hopes—to give up the woman he loved; and now, with this almost incontestable evidence before him, it seemed as if every hope of his manhood was destined to be crushed; and, with a strange perversity, even in the face of such stern facts as had just been presented to him, he said within himself that he would not yield his inheritance to this unknown child of Marion Vance—he would not give up his position, his wealth, his proud and honored name.
“It is a cunningly devised fable,” he said, with a stern, white face, “and I defy the claim.”
“I am sorry, my lord; for, with all my experience in the law, I must say I never undertook a clearer case,” the Hon. Mr. Faxon replied, with the same unvarying politeness that he had displayed all through the interview.
“Nevertheless, I shall resist to the uttermost of my ability. Tell your client so. He will have to fight a mighty hard battle before he will win one foot of Wycliffe,” the young marquis returned, moodily.