Adelaide appeared at dinner as usual.  All traces of agitation had vanished; and her manner was a cool and collected as if all had been peace and tranquillity at heart.  Lord Lindore’s departure was slightly noticed.  It was generally understood that he had been rejected by his cousin; and his absence at such a time was thought perfectly natural; the Duke merely remarking, with a vacant simper, “So Lord Lindore is gone—­Ah! poor Lord Lindore.”

Lady Juliana had, in a very early stage of the business, fixed in her own mind that she, as a matter of course, would be invited to accompany her daughter upon her marriage; indeed, she had always looked upon it as a sort of triple alliance, that was to unite her as indissolubly to the fortunes of the Duke of Altamont as though she had been his wedded wife.  But the time drew near, and in spite of all her hints and manoeuvres no invitation had yet been extorted from Adelaide.  The Duke had proposed to her to invite her sister, and even expressed something like a wish to that effect; for though he felt no positive pleasure in Mary’s society, he was yet conscious of a void in her absence.  She was always in good humour—­always gentle and polite—­and, without being able to tell why, his Grace always felt more at ease with her than with anybody else.  But his selfish bride seemed to think that the joys of her elevation would be diminished if shared even by her own sister, and she coldly rejected the proposal.  Lady Juliana was next suggested—­for the Duke had a sort of vague understanding that his safety lay in a multitude.  With him, as with all stupid people, company was society, words were conversation—­and all the gradations of intellect, from Sir Isaac Newton down to Dr. Redgill, were to him unknown.  But although, as with most weak people, obstinacy was his forte, he was here again compelled to yield to the will of his bride, as she also declined the company of her mother for the present.  The disappointment was somewhat softened to Lady Juliana by the sort of indefinite hopes that were expressed by her daughter of seeing her in town when they were fairly established; but until she had seen Altamont House, and knew its accommodations, she could fix nothing; and Lady Juliana was fain to solace herself with this dim perspective, instead of the brilliant reality her imagination had placed within her grasp.  She felt, too, without comprehending, the imperfectness of all earthly felicity.  As she witnessed the magnificent preparations for her daughter’s marriage, it recalled the bitter remembrance of her own—­and many a sigh burst from her heart as he thought, “Such as Adelaide is, I might have been had I been blest with such a mother, and brought up to know what was for my good!”

The die was cast.  Amidst pomp and magnificence, elate with pride, and sparkling with jewels, Adelaide Douglas reversed the fate of her mother; and while her affections were bestowed on another, she vowed, in the face of heaven, to belong only to the Duke of Altamont!