While the great event was pending, and general curiosity was awakened in the course of proceedings, the Lady Rosamond alone remained passive.  She calmly listened to the different reports of those to whom was entrusted the management of affairs with an ease that was perplexing in its simplicity.  A genial smile repaid any effort to please.  She gave advice with a gentle deference that surprised her most intimate friends and companions.  With calmness and subdued feelings did her ladyship examine the costly satins and laces scattered in lavish profusion, and being in readiness to assume the most courtly and elegant costumes at the sanction of the fair enchantress.  Maude Bereford was radiant with joy, the delightful prospect was at hand.  Bereford Castle was to receive her dearest Rosamond.  A splendid house was to be in readiness in the suburbs of London, where she would revel in the delights of fashionable society and the daily companionship of Lady Rosamond.

Gerald Bereford looked forward to the consummation of his hopes with fond solicitude.  Having received from Lady Rosamond a quiet appreciation of his tenderness and deep love, he dared not to question closely the motives which actuated her.  Sometimes he had momentary doubts concerning the entire reciprocation of her ladyship’s trust and confidence, which caused considerable anxiety, but the sweet, pensive smile which asserted itself was sufficient to drive out a host of smothered grievances.

When Lady Rosamond promised to become the wife of Gerald Bereford she did so from a true sense of duty and affection towards her only parent.  For him she would make the great sacrifice.  Did the occasion demand, she would sacrifice her life on his behalf.  In reality she had made such a test of her faith when she made her betrothal vow, bartering love, happiness, and life.  Yes; life, with its true enjoyments, by this sacrifice, would become a mocking, bitter trial, to which even death were gladly welcome.  Yet the noble girl shrank not from the task which the stern voice of duty had assigned.  She would bear it without a murmur.  None save Mary Douglas should know the depths of feeling of which her nature was capable.  Gerald Bereford would acknowledge the daily attention of a kind and dutiful wife.  No human being should know a secret that was to her more than life—­a soul within—­a burning, smouldering fire, around which clings the shuddering form of outraged Hope.  Lady Rosamond has kept her secret, therefore the writer will keep it in respect to her ladyship’s inward sanctity.  The reader may have gained it; if not, dear reader, you will in the end be rewarded for your patience by a disclosure.  In the meantime let us follow her ladyship through all the perplexing moments of her unhappy existence, admiring the true courage and grateful sentiments which sustain her.