He had never dreamed that the simple, trusting, loving girl, whom he had hitherto been able to mold to his lightest wish, possessed so much spirit and reserve power, and her burning, blighting words had fallen upon him like flashes of lightning, blinding and bewildering him with their vividness. But she was gone—that farce was played out to the end, and though the end had been anything but agreeable, yet it was over at last; and, smoothing his ruffled brow and calling a smile to his false lips, he went back to his boon companions, and tried to drown the heart-broken words of a ruined girl in copious draughts of sparkling champagne. CHAPTER XXIII A STARTLING DISCOVERY Marion Vance, after leaving the man whom, during that one hour’s interview, she had learned to loathe and despise as intensely as before she had loved him, returned directly to Wycliffe, where in the silence of her own room, she waited in dumb despair for the return of the marquis. Then, with a stern, set face, she sought everything—how she had refused while away on her visit to be introduced as his daughter, and thus brought upon herself this misery—and that when she found that the one upon whom she had lavished her affection cared only for position and wealth, she had kept silence, resolving rather to suffer her shame than to gratify his ambition when he proved to be so heartless and base. The only thing she reserved was the name of the man for whom she had sacrificed her birthright; and no amount of persuasions or threats could compel her to reveal it. The marquis sat stern and rigid while listening to this confession from his only child. He uttered no reproaches, he gave way to no violent passion or grief, only when she had concluded, he pointed with shaking finger to the door, saying, with perfectly hueless lips: “Do you know, Marion Vance, what you have done? You have cut off the inheritance forever from my heirs—you have sold your birthright for a mess of pottage, and it will go to Arthur Tressalia’s son, your cousin Paul. Do you hear? You have ruined both yourself and me. You have made me worse than childless. Go, and never let me look upon your face again while you live.” “Papa, do not—oh! do not send me away alone—alone into the cold, cruel world. I am your only child. I have no one but you. I love you, papa. Oh, have mercy! Let me stay here in my home. I will be very quiet and humble. I will never trouble you, only let me be where I can see and hear you sometimes,” Marion cried, in her despair, as she cast herself upon her knees before the stern man. He turned away from her with a face of stone, yet with a heart bursting with disappointment and agony equal to her own. “Go, I say. You shall not suffer; you shall have three hundred pounds a year, and more if that is not enough; but never let me see you again. I could not bear it and live,” was all he said in reply to her agonized entreaties.