Marion tottered from the room, praying that the earth would open and swallow her and her misery, and bury her in oblivion. That day she left Wycliffe forever. She fled to a small town in the southwest of England, assumed a name, and lived there in quiet seclusion until her son was seventeen years of age. Her heart was broken, her life was ruined, but she never told her boy the story of her shame and the disgrace she had entailed upon him until she lay upon her dying bed. He had got the idea, and always believed, that his father had died before he was born, and seeing that it pained his mother to talk of the past, he never mentioned it. Marion determined, since she had been the means of robbing him of his proud title and position, that she would devote her life to him, and rear him with a character stamped with grandeur with which no worldly title could ever endow him. She taught him to hate everything mean or low—to love and cling to the truth, no matter what opposed—to be a _manly man_, never despising or exalting any one on account of position alone; but to admire and emulate true worth wherever he might find it, and regard every one whom he could respect as an equal. 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?”