Marion Arleigh's Penance, Charlotte Mary Brame [good books to read for young adults TXT] 📗

once. Not for her money--he was rich enough to dispense with wealth in a wife; not for money, but for her wonderful beauty and simple, unaffected grace.

He was charmed with her; the candor, the purity, the brightness of her disposition enchanted him.

"Her lips seemed to be doubly lovely," he said one day to Lady Ridsdale, "because they have not, in my opinion, ever uttered one false word."

Marion was equally enchanted; there was no one so great or so good as Lord Atherton. The heroes she had read of faded into insignificance before him. He was so generous, so noble, so loyal, so truthful in every way, such a perfect gentleman, and no mean scholar. It was something to win the love of such a man, it was something to love him.

Now she understood this was true love, the very remembrance of her infatuation over Allan Lyster dyed her beautiful faca crimson. Ah, how she thanked Heaven that she was free, how utterly wretched she would have been for her whole life long had she been beguiled into marrying him!

She loved Lord Atherton with her whole heart, her womanly nature did him full homage. She appreciated his noble qualities, she was happy in his love as it was possible for a woman to be.

Yet, after he had asked her to be his wife, there came over her a great longing to tell him the story of her engagement to Allan Lyster.

"He ought to know it," she said, "though all is at end now; he ought to know it, there should be no secrets between us."

But she dare not tell him. One thing that restrained her was the promise she had given never to mention it, but the reason above all others was she knew his fastidious sense of honor so well that she was afraid he would not love her when he knew how lightly she had once before given her love.

So she committed that greatest of all errors, she engaged herself to marry Lord Atherton without telling him of her acquaintance with the young artist. Then she was so happy for a time that she forgot the whole matter; she was so happy that she ceased to remember there had ever been anything deserving blame in her life.

The season over, they returned to Thorpe Castle, and Lord Atherton soon followed to pay them a long visit. He told them quite frankly that it was perfectly useless to delay the wedding, that he could not live out of Marion's presence, therefore the sooner the arrangements were made the better.

That was perhaps the happiest time in Marion's life. Lady Ridsdale, delighted at the excellent match she was about to make, was in the highest spirits. Preparations were begun for the trousseau. Lord Atherton ordered that his mansion, Leigh Hall, should be entirely refurnished. Every luxury, every splendor, every magnificence, was prepared for the bride; presents were lavished upon her from all sides; congratulations and good wishes were showered on her.

She was perhaps at that time the happiest girl in the world. She had almost forgotten that buried romance of her school days. When she remembered Allan, it was only with an earnest desire to help him. To Adelaide Lyster she sent some very superb presents, telling her frankly of her approaching marriage, and telling her she would always be most welcome at Leigh Hall.

If she had been more worldly-wise, poor child, she would have known that Adelaide's silence meant mischief; but she was not married with any presentiment of the sorrow that was to fall so heavily upon her and when she was married she declared herself to be happier than any one had ever been in this world yet.


CHAPTER XII.


An agreement had been made between them that some little time should elapse before Allan put his long-cherished scheme into execution. Nothing, Adelaide assured him, could have answered his purpose better than Marion's marriage with the wealthy Lord Atherton.

"You will be able to get what you like from her, Allan. I am told she worships her husband. Those letters will be worth a fortune, after all. Now see what it is to have a clever sister."

They allowed her, poor child, some short dream of happiness; she was lulled into perfect security when the blow fell. As Lady Atherton of Leigh her position was second to none. Her husband owned half the county; she was queen of the whole of it. She was beloved, popular and admired; her husband worshiped her; her friends held her in highest honor and esteem. To Lord and Lady Ridsdale she had grown dear as a child of their own. She was at the height of human felicity; there was nothing on earth left for her to desire. Sometimes, when she heard of the misery resulting from very unequal or loveless marriages, she would raise her beautiful face to heaven and thank God that she had been preserved from the snares of her youth. She heard quite accidentally from some one, who had been purchasing a picture, that Allan Lyster was abroad, and she decided, in her own most generous mind, that when he returned he should have an order that would please him. But he did not return, and from her old friend, Adelaide, she had heard no single word since her marriage.

There were great rejoicings when her little son and heir was born; the only fear was lest the child should be absolutely killed by the great amount of affection and caresses heaped upon it. Lord Atherton's happiness was complete, Lord and Lady Ridsdale were delighted with the beautiful princely boy, and his mother absolutely worshiped him.

It was when the little heir of Leigh was about a year old that the blow fell on his beautiful mother. She was seated one morning in her luxurious dressing-room, a scene of splendid confusion and brilliant coloring that would have enchanted an artist, herself more lovely than ever, for the promise of her girlhood had developed into magnificent womanhood. Jewels of great value lay on the toilet-table, costly dresses were lying about. The nurse had just been in with baby, and nothing would please baby but playing with his mamma's beautiful golden-brown hair. Of course his wish must be gratified. The diamond arrow that fastened the heavy coils was withdrawn, and the glorious wealth of hair, in all its shining abundance, fell in picturesque disorder. Then Lord Atherton entered to ask his wife some question about the day's proceedings, and he told her she looked so lovely he would not let the beautiful hair be touched. My lord withdrew, leaving his wife's face flushed with pleasure at his praises. Then came the maid, and she brought in her hands some letters that had just arrived. Lady Atherton laid them down carelessly; there was nothing, she thought, that could possibly interest her.

Presently she took up the letters, and then all her indifference vanished, the love light died from her eyes, the smile from her lips. She knew the handwriting. One of those notes was from Allan Lyster.

She hastily opened it, and, as she read, all the color faded from her sweet face. The folly and sin of her ignorant girlhood were finding her out.

"I have but just returned from abroad," he wrote, "where I have been for more than two years, and I am completely overwhelmed by the intelligence that awaited me. You are married, Marion! You, who promised so faithfully to be my wife. You, whose letters to me contain that promise given over and over again. It is too late to ask what this treachery means. I have by me the letter you wrote, asking for your freedom, and I have the copy of mine absolutely refusing it. I told you then that I should hold you to your promise, and you have disregarded my words.

"Marion, I must have compensation. It is useless talking to one like you of love. You throw aside the poor artist for the rich lord. You must pay me in your own coin, in what you value most--money. You have wronged me as your promised husband. I had some right to your fortune, as your duped and deserted lover. That right still remains. I claim some portion of what ought to have been all mine.

"I am in immediate and urgent want of a thousand pounds. That is very little for one who ought, as your husband, to be at this moment the master of Hanton Hall and its rich domain. However, for a time, that will content me; when I want another I will come to you for it. I will not call at your house; you can send me a check, bank note, or what you will.

"I do not wish to seem harsh, but it is better to tell you at once that if you refuse any money request of mine at any time I shall immediately commence proceedings against you. I shall bring an action for breach of promise of marriage, and all England will cry shame on the false, mercenary woman who abandoned a poor lover, to whom her troth was plighted, in order to marry a rich lord. All England shall despise you. For your child's sake, I counsel you to avoid an exposure."

She read those terrible words over and over again. Suddenly the whole plot grew clear to her. It was for this they had schemed and plotted. Not for love of her, but to make money out of her, to trade upon her weakness and folly, stain her character, her fair name, her happiness, the love of her husband and child, the esteem of her friends. All lay in their hands. They could, if they would, make her name, that noble name which her husband bore so proudly, a subject of jest all over the world.

She could fancy the papers, their paragraphs, their remarks, their comments. She could almost see the heading:

"Action for Breach of Promise against Lady Atherton." How the Radicals, who hated her husband for his politics, would rejoice! Even in the years to come, when her child grew to man's estate, it would be as a black mark against him that his mother had been the subject of such vulgar jest. Her husband would never bear it. He would leave her, she was sure. Ah! better pay a thousand pounds over and over again than go through all this.

Yet it seemed a large sum; not that she cared for it, but how could she get it without her husband's knowledge? By her own wish, all money affairs had been left in his hands; he would wonder when he looked at her check book why she had drawn so large a sum; better write out checks of a hundred pounds each.

She did so, and sent them. Just as she was folding the paper that enclosed them a grand inspiration came to her--an impulse to go to her husband and tell him all.

He would find some means of saving her, she was quite sure of that. Then the more cowardly, the weaker part of her nature, rose in rebellion. She dared not, for, if she did, he would never love her again. So she sent the thousand pounds, and then there was an interval of peace. Yet not peace for her; the sword was suspended over her head, and any moment it might fall. She grew thin, restless and nervous; her husband and all her friends wondered what ailed her; her manner changed, even her beautiful face seemed to grow restless and pale.

Then came the demand for a second thousand.