What wonder, then, that, goaded and taunted by her father, implored by her mother, solicited by the handsome duke, believing her young lover to be dead, slain by the hands of her father, longing to escape from the persecutions of her family, prostrated in body and mind, broken in heart and in spirit, Valerie at last succumbed to the pressure brought to bear upon her, and accepted the refuge of the Duke of Hereward’s love, although the very next moment, in honor of herself and him, she would willingly have recalled her decision, if she could have done so.

From the moment that her acceptance of the duke’s proposal was announced to her parents, the domestic sky cleared; her ruthless tyrant became again her tender father; her weeping mother brightened into smiles; she herself was once more the petted daughter of the house, and her lover showed himself the proudest and happiest of men; and Valerie de la Motte would have been at peace but for her consciousness of the secret that they were all keeping from the duke.

“Mamma, he ought to be told, he is so good, so noble, so confiding.  I feel like a wretch in deceiving him; he ought to be told of my fault before he commits himself by marrying me,” she pleaded with her mother.

“Valerie, you frighten me half to death!  Do not dream of such a folly as telling the duke anything about your mad imprudence in running away with the young Russian!  It would make a great and terrible scandal!  Your father would kill you, I do believe!  Besides, for that fault, committed while you were in our keeping and under our authority, you are accountable only to me and to your father.  Your betrothed husband has nothing to do with it.  No good would come of your telling it; no harm can come of your keeping it.  The wild partner of your imprudence is dead and buried, the saints be praised! and so he can never rise up to trouble your peace.  While you are here with us, and under our authority, you must obey us, and hold your peace, and keep your secret,” said the baroness.

“Come weal, come woe, my honor requires that this secret should be told to the noble and confiding gentleman who is about to make me his wife,” murmured Valerie.

“Your honor, Mademoiselle, is in the keeping of your father, until, by giving you in marriage, he passes it into the keeping of your husband.  You are not to concern yourself about it.  If your father should deem that your ‘honor’ demands your secret to be confided to your betrothed husband, he will divulge it to him:  if he does not divulge it, then rest assured honor does not require him to do so.  Now let us hear no more about it.”

Valerie sighed and yielded, but she was not satisfied.

The betrothal was immediately announced to the world, and the marriage, which soon followed, was celebrated in the church of Notre Dame with the greatest eclat.

Directly after the wedding the duke took his bride on a long tour, extending over Europe and into Asia; and after an absence of several months, carried her to England, and settled down for the autumn on his English patrimonial estate, Hereward Hold, (for Castle Lone was then a ruin and Inch Lone a wilderness, which no one had yet dreamed of rebuilding and restoring.)