We have already explained how Paul Tressalia was related to the Marquis of Wycliffe, his grandmother being the marquis’ only sister, and, should he die without issue, her heirs would inherit the proud name and wealth belonging to him. When the blow came that destroyed all the marquis’ fond hopes, and Marion Vance was driven forth from her home to hide her disgrace, and bring up her illegitimate child far from the immaculate precincts of Wycliffe, little Paul Tressalia, then about six years of age, was at once acknowledged the heir, and from that time educated accordingly. It was the news of the sudden death of the marquis and of his own succession to his vast property, both in France and England, that had hastened his departure from Newport. This letter, by some unaccountable means, had been missent, and did not reach him until more than a month after his kinsman’s death, and so, without any delay, he hastened to present himself at Wycliffe. He had never mentioned his prospects to any one during his sojourn in America, where he had tarried longer by a year than he at first intended, on account of his love for Editha. So, although he was reported to be the heir to vast wealth, no one really seemed to know just in what that wealth consisted, or what his future prospects were. He was very modest and unassuming regarding them, preferring to be accepted solely upon his own merits wherever he went, rather than upon the dignity of his prospective grandeur. He took possession of Wycliffe immediately upon his return to England, and also of all the property belonging to the previous marquis. And yet, in the midst of all his prosperity, he was sad and depressed. The one woman whom he loved could not share it with him, and all his bright prospects, like the apples of Sodom, turned to ashes in his grasp. “Oh, my bright Editha!” he moaned, “why could you not have loved me, when I could have given you everything that would make life beautiful to you, when you are so well fitted to grace the position you would have filled as my wife? The beautiful things around me are but mockery—they are nothing to me compared with the boon I crave.” This was his continual cry, and he would shut himself away from every human eye for days, and battle with himself, striving to conquer his hopeless love. Then it began to be whispered and suggested to him that Wycliffe must have a mistress—he was over thirty, and it was high time that some good, true woman came there to reign, where for so many years there had been no mistress. “Oh, God!” he cried, after some one had spoken to him of this; “I love but one—I cannot, I _will_ not yield her place to another! Must it be—is there no escape?” and his sense of what was right and proper told him that it _ought_ to be. And so several months went by, while all the county yielded him homage, and every matron with a marriageable damsel upon her hands showered upon him every attention that her fertile brains could suggest.