“Explain a little further, my wisest of sisters,” said Allan.

“A written promise of marriage is the only security a man has.  Women change like the wind, without rhyme or reason.  But if you have her own word pledged to you, her promise of marriage written so that there shall be no mistake, then it will be worth a fortune to you.”

“Even if she should refuse to fulfil”—­

“You are not very worldly wise, Allan,” said his sister with the slightest tinge of contempt in her voice.  “If she fulfils it, all well and good.  The very fact of having written it keeps a girl true when she should otherwise be false.  But if she refuses to keep it, the remedy then is in your own hands.”

“And that remedy is”—­he began, but she interrupted him quickly.

“The remedy is, of course, an action at law; or what would be far more efficacious in her case, holding her letters as a means of getting money from her.  A proud woman will sacrifice any amount of wealth rather than have such a thing known.”

Marion Arleigh fell easily into the plot laid by those she considered her best friends.

CHAPTER VII.

It is not pleasant to trace the steps by which the simple credulous girl fell into the snare laid for her.  She had sense and reason, but they were both overbalanced by romance—­she saw only the ideal side of everything.  The romance of this hidden love was delightful to her; she compared herself to every heroine in fiction, and found none of them in a more charming position that herself.

Allan’s profession had something to do with romance; had he been a mere commonplace doctor or lawyer it would have been a different matter, but an artist—­the halo of his art transfigured him in her eyes—­thus to be capable of a deep and passionate love such as he felt for her!

It was altogether like one of those romances that charmed her; and after a time she gave herself up entirely to her love.

By the skilful mamnagement of Adelaide Lyster their meetings became very frequent, and before long he had won from her a promise that she would love him all her life, and would consent to marry him.  Even at that time, when she was most ecstatic, most carried away by the novelty and the romance, even then, if any sensible person had spoken to her, she would have understood more her position than she did now.

If anyone had said to her:  “That man is not a hero, he is only a fortune hunter; he is not even an honorable man, or he would not seek to decoy you from your duty to bind you to an underhand agreement; instead of being honorable and a hero he is dishonorable and a rogue”—­she had sense enough to have seen that.  She understood enough of the laws of honor to know when they were broken.  But this side of the question never occured to her.  He was young, handsome, and an artist; he loved her so dearly that for love of her he was almost dying.