Esmeralda started, and her hand closed tightly over her fan. This
gentleman, who had thanked her so fervently in the park, this
nephew of Lord Selvaine’s, was the “Trafford” of whom Norman
Druce had talked in his delirium, whose praises he had sung so
enthusiastically! Would he recognize her? She raised her eyes to
his almost apprehensively; but he, as he bowed, looked at her with
grave, absent-minded eyes, and it seemed to Esmeralda as if he
scarcely saw her.
“Miss Chetwynde is Lady Wyndover’s ward,” said Lord Selvaine.
“She has only just arrived in England, and this is her first
acquaintance with Vanity Fair. I ought to add that she is wise
enough not to dance, and so is reveling in the easy joys of the
mere spectator.”
With a little smile and bow he moved away, and left them alone.
Lord Trafford leaned against the wall, and gazed gravely at the
crowd, almost as if he had forgotten Esmeralda. She did not know
that he was trying to remember where he had seen her before.
She looked at him from under her long lashes with a curious and
intense interest. This, then, was the Lord Trafford, the eldest
son of the great Duke of Belfayre, who would some day himself be
the great Duke of Belfayre. Yes, he was very handsome. Lord Norman
had not exaggerated. And she understood, as she scanned him, with
a woman’s comprehensive glance, what Norman had meant when he had
said that his cousin was far and away above all other men. She
felt, though she could not have explained why, that he was the most
distinguished-looking man in the room, though there was no broad
blue ribbon across his breast, and only a dark-looking stone--she
did not know that it was a black pearl--in his shirt-front for
jewelry. Suddenly he looked down at her; so suddenly--and yet not
abruptly--that she lowered her eyes quickly.
“You are sitting in a draught, Miss Chetwynde,” he said. “Come
into this seat,” and he indicated one a little further into the
conservatory.
Esmeralda obeyed.
“Was there a draught?” she said. “It didn’t matter. Lady Wyndover
minds them, but it makes no difference to me; I never catch cold. I
suppose it is because I am used to draughts.”
As she spoke, he looked at her intently, and seemed to listen
eagerly, and with a slight frown, as if he were puzzled.
“You have only just come to England?” he said.
“Only a little while ago--about a week,” said Esmeralda.
“And you have been away, on the Continent?” he asked.
“No; I came straight from Australia,” she said. “I have never been
anywhere else.”
His brows contracted, and he looked still more puzzled. A faint
smile curved Esmeralda’s lips. She knew that he was trying to
remember where he had seen her.
“Australia--I have never been there,” he said, musingly. “And do
you like England--what you have seen of it, Miss Chetwynde?”
“For some things, yes; for others, no,” said Esmeralda. “But that
is, perhaps, because I’m strange, and things are so different.”
“So different?” he echoed, invitingly. Something of the charm
of her freshness attracted him, as it attracted all who came in
contact with her. He looked at her more attentively, and began to
realize how beautiful she was, and how girlish and unsophisticated.
He did not read the society papers, and had heard nothing, knew
nothing about her, beyond the knowledge which Lord Selvaine’s
introductory words conveyed.
“Yes,” said Esmeralda. “People talk and behave differently to
what I’ve been used to, and it is strange, at first; but I dare
say I shall get used to it. Don’t you want to dance?” she broke
off. “Everybody must want to dance who can; don’t let me keep you
standing here.”
He did not smile at her candor as another man might have done.
“I don’t dance very often,” he said. “And I am glad to stand here,
if you will allow me. Like you, I enjoy being a spectator.”
“Oh, but I don’t enjoy it,” said Esmeralda. “I’d dance if I could.
I’m going to learn. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, gravely, but said nothing. It was
said that Lord Trafford had, like Hawthorne, “flashes of eloquent
silence.” This was one of them. A waltz was just over, and several
couples passed them into the conservatory, into which there were
two or three entrances. The buzz of chatter and laughter surrounded
them; now and again some one could be heard distinctly. A voice,
coming from a cluster of palms, just then reached them. It was a
woman’s voice, and she was saying:
“Have you seen her, my dear? She is one of the most beautiful girls
I ever saw. She is perfectly lovely! With the most wonderful hair
and eyes.”
“A kind of ‘Belle Sauvage,’ I suppose?”
“No, indeed! She looks just like any one else,” rejoined the first
lady. “She is perfectly dressed--of course Lady Wyndover would
see to that--and she seems quite--quite quiet and well behaved. I
haven’t spoken to her yet.”
“Ah,” said the second voice, “I expect if you had your enthusiasm
would have evaporated. You would find that she dropped her h’s, or
talked through her nose.”
The other lady laughed.
“I dare say; she comes from the wilds of Australia. But it does not
matter; she will become the rage, however she talks, or whatever
she does, mark my words. Over two millions of money! Think of
it! Oh, we shall have her photographs in all the shop-windows
presently! Lord Selvaine has approved of her, he has been sitting
beside her, and promenading with her half the evening. Yes,
before long we shall all be wearing the ‘Chetwynde’ hat, or the
‘Chetwynde’ cape. Two millions! Think of it, dear!”
Lord Trafford, who had heard every word, colored, and looked down
at Esmeralda.
“Shall we go into the ball-room?” he said, quietly.
“No!” said Esmeralda. There was a dash of color in her cheek,
and her glorious eyes flashed under their lashes. “Yes, they are
talking about me. It is not very kind, is it? I can’t help being
born in Australia; and”--with a sudden thrill in her voice--“I
wouldn’t if I could! And I can’t help having all this money! Oh, I
hate England, and--and all the English people!”
She rose with a sudden gesture which, it must be confessed,
had something savage in it. The words, the tone, the gesture,
inexplicably recalled her to Trafford’s memory. He took her hand
and drew it upon his arm.
“I know now!” he said in the tone of triumph and satisfaction we
use when we have succeeded in remembering. “It was you who caught
Lady Ada’s horse in the park yesterday.”
Esmeralda’s face grew hot, and she looked straight before her.
“You have been a long while remembering,” she said.
“Forgive me!” he pleaded. “Please, _please_ forgive me! The
difference in dress, the-- How brave it was of you!”
“Oh!” she said, quietly, but with an upraising of her brows. “I
thought it was very foolish! I’ve been told that it was--was
unlady-like to interfere. Another time I shall stand quite still,
and let happen what will.”
He looked at her.
“No, you will not!” he said. “You could not, Miss Chetwynde. I
am glad I have met you to-night; I want to tell you how much I
admired--appreciated--your courage, your presence of mind! Another
woman, girl, would have screamed or run away.”
“I never scream; and I don’t run away,” said Esmeralda, as if she
were stating a mere matter of fact.
“I can believe it!” he said. “I can believe anything of you that is
brave and noble. And I beg you, on your part, to believe that we,
in England, are not all like these silly, brainless chatterers.” He
waved his hand toward the palms.
Esmeralda’s heart beat tumultuously. His voice, his manner--now so
full of life and spirit--affected her strangely. She could not look
at him, but gazed straight before her; and as she looked--through a
mist, as it were--she saw a tall, graceful girl, with flaxen hair
and blue eyes, coming toward them, on the arm of Lord Blankyre. It
was the lady whom she had saved in the park.
Lord Trafford did not see her; he was intent upon Esmeralda’s face.
“Oh, here you are, Trafford,” said Lord Blankyre; “I am sorry to
have found you, for Lady Ada promised me this dance, if I failed to
do so.”
Esmeralda looked fixedly at the fair girl she had saved from a
broken limb or worse--looked with a kind of wonder, for Lady Ada
Lancing, in ball-room costume, was a vision lovely enough to evoke
wonder from any heart, male or female. She wore a dress of palest
blue, covered with a cream lace of finest spider-web, and, with her
delicate complexion, looked like a _chef d’œuvre_ in biscuit china.
Lord Trafford bowed to Esmeralda.
“I hope we shall meet again, Miss Chetwynde,” he said, and went off
with Lady Ada on his arm.
Esmeralda nodded--the free-and-easy Three Star nod--and sunk into
her chair. She was instantly surrounded by men who had been waiting
for their opportunity, and when Lady Wyndover found her she was
hemmed in by a circle of courtiers competing for her smiles.
The ball was almost over, and Lord Trafford had conducted Lady Ada
to the brougham which she shared with her watch-dog and cousin,
Lady Grange, and was hesitating between his club and bed, when Lord
Selvaine came up and touched him on the shoulder.
“Going home, Trafford? Take me with you, and give me a soda and
whisky, will you?”
“Certainly,” he said in his grave fashion.
They got into a hansom, and were driven to Lord Trafford’s chambers
in the Albany. Lord Trafford turned up the incandescent light, and
motioned his uncle into the most comfortable chair, and produced
the spirit-stand and syphon. His man had gone to his virtuous couch
hours ago; for Lord Trafford was eccentric enough to study his
servant’s comfort.
Lord Selvaine leaned back and sipped his whisky and soda, and
smoked delicately.
“Nice evening, Traff?” he said.
Lord Trafford leaned against the mantel-piece and looked absently
at the smoke from his cigarette.
“Yes; oh, yes! Lady Blankyre’s parties are always successful. Does
that cigarette suit you, or will you have a Turkish?”
“Quite satisfactory, thanks,” said Lord Selvaine. “Delightful
evening! But I was particularly lucky, for I spent a great
portion of it with Miss Chetwynde.” He knocked the ashes from his
cigarette, and nestled still closer in the luxurious chair. “What
a wonderful girl! Really, my dear boy, I have never seen a more
beautiful woman! Those eyes of hers are--are a revelation! And her
hair! Titian and Murillo, to say nothing of Burne-Jones!”
“She is very beautiful,” said Lord Trafford, absently.
“She is lovely!” exclaimed Lord Selvaine, softly. “And she is as
charming as she is beautiful. Such innocence and--and freshness! I
declare to you that if I were a marrying man, and, say, a trifle of
twenty years younger, I should be in love with her. By Jove! I _am_
in love with her as it is!”
Trafford smiled.
“Where is there a woman who can compare with her?” demanded Lord
Selvaine in the same soft voice, and looking, not at his nephew,
but at the smoke which rose from his own cigarette. “I grant you
that she is--well, rather green, but it is the green of the lily,
the freshness of the mountain ash, which will wear off, alas!
before the season has passed.”
“Miss Chetwynde is very innocent--yes,” assented Lord Trafford.
“And she is worth--what is it?--a couple of millions?” murmured
Lord Selvaine.
“So I understand,” said Trafford.
Lord Selvaine smoked leisurely, and eyed, through his half-closed
eyes, his nephew.
“Have you been down to Belfayre lately, Traff?” he asked.
Trafford shook his head.
“Not lately.”
“Better come down with me to-morrow,” said Lord Selvaine. “There is
a kind of conference on. Things are very bad, you know.”
“I know,” assented Trafford, with a sigh.
“Yes; and the worst of it is that the duke doesn’t realize how
bad they are. He has been going into this scheme for making a
fashionable watering-place of Belfayre Bay, and talks and acts as
if we had half a million at our backs.”
“I know,” said Lord Trafford again, sadly.
“Yes,” continued Lord Selvaine, smoothly. “I dare say there is
something in it, but it would take a million, or thereabouts, to
put it right. The question is--where is that million to come from?”
“I do not know,” said Trafford.
Lord Selvaine leaned forward, still smoking.
“What will you give me, Traff, if I tell you?” he asked, with a
smile.
Trafford looked at him gravely.
“What do you mean?” he said, wearily. “Where is a million of money
to come from?”
Lord Selvaine fell back, and regarded his nephew with half-closed
lids.
“Let us be plain with each other, Traff,” he said. “It is what
no other members of the family are. The House of Belfayre is on
the brink of ruin. Your father is in his dotage, and does not
recognize the fact; in fact, has forgotten it. But you and I know
it. Now, the question is, whether we shall bow to Fate, and consent
to sink into the mud, or make an effort to extricate ourselves.
Personally, the question does not affect me. I am a bachelor, and
have enough for my few and simple wants. But with you, dear boy, it
is different. You are the next duke, the head of the family. With
you it is a duty and tradition to keep up the old name, the old
position.”
“I know,” said Trafford, with a sigh.
“You can’t stand aside, with a shrug of your shoulders, and see the
family title go down. Rank has its obligations and duties as well
as its privileges.”
Lord Trafford sighed again. All this was a truism which he had
learned in his cradle.
“There is only one way in which you can pick the House of Belfayre
from the dust,” continued Lord Selvaine; “only one way in which you
can save the good old name and the good old acres. You must marry.”
Trafford flung his cigarette in the fire, and made an impatient
movement. Lord Selvaine looked at him through half-closed lids.
“My dear boy, I know exactly what you feel. I have been through
the fire. But I have drawn back in time. I know, when I speak of
marrying, your thoughts, your heart at once fly to Ada Lancing.”
Trafford started, and frowned.
“Forgive me, my dear Traff! One must speak sometimes with the
muzzle off. I admire, I adore Ada Lancing; she has only one
defect. She is as beautiful as a dream, as imperial as an empress,
but, unfortunately, she has no money. And what we want is money.
_Money!_ Not a little, but a large sum. An enormous sum!” He sipped
his soda and whisky, and settled himself more comfortably in his
easy-chair. Trafford went to the window, and looked out at the
night. Every word this worldly wise uncle of his spoke jarred upon
him. And yet, how worldly wise, how unanswerable it was!
“With a large sum of money,” continued Lord Selvaine, “we could
recover ourselves. The mortgages could be paid off. Belfayre could
expand itself; in short, the family could hold up its head again,
and you, my dear Traff, instead of being the heir to one of the
oldest titles and an ocean of debts and incumbrances, would be a
real duke with a real dukedom.”
“What is it you are driving at?” asked Lord Trafford, impatiently.
“Only this,” said his uncle, blandly, “that to-night I have seen a
way to removing all our difficulties.”
Lord Trafford looked at the smooth face questioningly.
“Yes; an easy way, as I take it. You _must_, my dear Traff, marry
money. Well, money--and a most charming girl--are ready to your
hand. Two millions of money! Think of it!”
“Two millions!” echoed Trafford, grimly.
“Yes; that is what Miss Chetwynde is worth.”
“Miss Chetwynde!”
“Yes; the girl I introduced you to. You must admit that she is
beautiful enough--”
“Beautiful! But--but--”
“But what, my dear Traff? You don’t imagine that the millions are
to be obtained without certain disadvantages? Bah! Of course there
are disadvantages! But you must swallow them. They will be sugared
pills, anyhow! Think of two millions! It will redeem Belfayre; it
will restore the house to its old stability; it will be the making
of us! Yes, Traff, you will have to marry Miss Chetwynde!”