“You will not forget me, darling?” he said, pleadingly.  “You will write to me, and you will let me sometimes see you?” She promised faithfully.  She wept over leaving him, yet in some unaccountable way her spirits rose when she came away; she felt more free, more at ease than she had done for a long time.

“You must make the best use of the sunny days,” said Lady Ridsdale.  “There is one advantage in having been so long at school—­you will be perfectly fresh to the world, and that is always a charm in itself.  You must give yourself up entirely to my guidance for a time.”

Marion did so most willingly.  Lady Ridsdale engaged a pretty, quick Parisian as lady’s maid; she invited young ladies of her own rank and position to stay at the castle; she obtained every possible enjoyment and pleasure for the girl.

This was something like.  The hours seemed to fly like golden moments, the very atmosphere was different.  Here all was refinement, grace, courtesy and kindness.  Lady Ridsdale knew some delightful people, and nothing pleased her so much as filling Thorpe Castle with visitors.

One and all were delighted with the young heiress.  Her beauty, her brilliant accomplishments, her simplicity, her frankness of character and sweetness of temper made her a general favorite.  She soon made up for lost time.  She learned to drive, to ride, to row, to do all the hundred and one pretty things that mark the young lady of the world.

The gentlemen admired her exceedingly, she was so lovely, so candid.  She was never left alone.  If she entered the drawing-room she was instantly surrounded with a little court of admirers.  When she wished to ride or walk there was always some little contention as to who should accompany her.  It was very pleasant.  Before she had been at Thorpe Castle long Marion Arleigh was queen of the new world.  In the midst of all her happiness the first letter from Allan Lyster came like a thunderbolt.  She was naturally so frank, so candid, that the keeping of a secret was most difficult to her.  Her first impulse was to go to Lady Ridsdale and tell her everything.  Then she remembered that she had given a solemn pledge of secrecy, and that she must not say one word.

It made her very unhappy.  She did not like the sense of concealment.  She did not like having a secret of so much importance that she could share with no one.  Then it struck her, too, that the tone of the letter was not quite what she liked; it was in some vague way different from the tone of the people she was living with.  She did not like that reiterated petition, for secrecy was weighing heavily on her heart and soul.  She waited two days before answering that letter.  She said to herself that she ought to be very pleased to receive it, and that she was pleased; yet something weighed on her mind and shadowed the perfect happiness she had expected to feel.

Then she answered him, and again, for the first time in her life, she sat with her pen in her hand, hardly knowing what to say.  She had been accustomed to writing page after page and never pausing.  Since then something seemed to have arisen in her life and to stand between them.  She did not care to tell him of the luxury of Thorpe Castle, the number of visitors, the splendor of the entertainments.