Trafford went straight from Eaton Square to his club. He had had
the worst quarter of an hour in his life, and felt extremely
unhappy, and as if he were a brute and a monster of the cruelest
type. And yet he knew that he had done the right thing, and he
tried to console himself with the reflection that he had behaved
as became a gentleman and a man of honor; but Ada Lancing’s face,
lined with agony, and her voice broken and wailing, haunted him.
He went into the smoking-room of the Marlborough and lighted a
cigar--that solatium of the angry, the wounded, the wearied, and
the sore oppressed. He had not been there five minutes before a
young friend entered and hailed him with sprightly welcome. He
was a wild young Irish viscount, Lord Dunworthy, who was rapidly
running through a fortune which he had recently inherited, and
enjoying life as only a young Irishman can. He was the gossip of
the club, and Trafford usually liked to listen to his light-hearted
chatter; but he could have dispensed with it this afternoon.
“Halloo, Trafford!” said the young fellow. “I’m in luck! Who’d have
thought of seeing you here at this time of day! Have a whisky and
soda? I’m going to!”
Trafford declined the proffered drink, and Lord Dunworthy swiftly
consumed his, and sat himself down beside Trafford for a talk. He
retailed the gossip of the day, but suddenly broke off to exclaim:
“I say, Trafford, were you at the Blankyres’ the other night?”
Trafford nodded.
“I didn’t go; I wish I had, for I should have seen the heiress they
are all talking about. She was at the Fletchers’ last night, but
I got there too late, and she’d gone before I arrived. Is she as
beautiful as they say she is?”
“Do you mean Miss Chetwynde?” asked Trafford, gravely.
“Of course! Nobody’s talking of any one else. They tell me that she
created a tremendous sensation at the Blankyres’; and last night,
at the Fletchers’, there was such a mob round her that you couldn’t
get near her. And did you see ‘Society Chatter’ this morning?”
Trafford said that he never read the paper.
“Ah! not much in your line! Well, there’s nearly a page about her.
It gives a full account of how she was found out in Australia, and
an exhaustive description of her dresses. They say she’s worth two
millions, and that she’s one of the most charming girls that ever
came to London. She’s going to be the rage this season, you mark my
words. Is it true that she drops her h’s, and otherwise murders the
Queen’s English?”
“It is not true,” said Trafford, rather grimly, and angry with
himself for feeling angry.
“No? Not that it matters. I suppose it’s all right about the coin?”
“I don’t know; I believe so!” said Trafford. “I know nothing of
Miss Chetwynde; and I only talked with her for a few minutes. I
didn’t ask her if she possessed two millions.”
The young fellow looked at him with some little surprise; Trafford
was not usually short-tempered or irritable.
“All right, old chap; didn’t mean anything offensive; didn’t know
she was a friend of yours.”
“I can lay no claim to Miss Chetwynde’s friendship,” said Trafford,
trying to smile.
“That’s all right. I shall see her myself to-night; she is going to
the Villiers’, and you bet I sha’n’t be late this time. They say
that Lady Wyndover is in the seventh heaven of delight at having
such a ward, and that no one less than a prince of the blood will
be good enough for her. Shall you go to-night?”
“I don’t know,” said Trafford.
“Do!” said the young fellow. “There’ll be a fearful crush, for Miss
Chetwynde will be a great attraction; but I dare say we can fight
our way in.”
Trafford was soon left alone again, for the gay young Irishman
did not find him too cheerful a companion, and Trafford finished
his cigar in a mood even more irritable than that in which he had
commenced it.
It seemed to him as if this girl were going to dominate his life,
as if he were to be haunted by her name and her money wherever he
went and whomsoever he met. He dined at the club, and the two or
three men who sat at the same table with him talked of little else
but Miss Chetwynde. One of them, with the audacity of youth, called
her the Golden Savage; and Trafford sat almost silent, and chafing
inwardly, though outwardly as calm and serene as usual. He went
home to his chambers half resolved not to go to the Villiers’, but
by ten o’clock the faint resolution had melted, and he put on his
overcoat, and sauntered down to Lord Villiers’ official residence,
in Carlton Terrace, in a frame of mind more easily imagined than
described.
About the same time, Lady Wyndover and Esmeralda were starting for
the same destination. Her ladyship was, if not in a seventh heaven
of delight, in the fifth or sixth. Esmeralda’s success had been
greater, more emphatic than even Lady Wyndover had anticipated,
and she was basking in something of the glory which shone around
her ward. As the guardian of one of the most beautiful, and the
richest, and, what is more important still, the most successful of
the débutantes, Lady Wyndover had suddenly risen from a position
of comparative insignificance to one of great social value. There
would now be no difficulty in filling her dinner-parties; there
would be plenty of invitations to the best houses; plenty of
partners, plenty of adulation and eager civility.
She was all in a little flutter of excitement, and the blood
mantled in her powdered cheek, making the artistically applied
rouge almost unnecessary, as she watched Esmeralda going through
the last stages of her toilet under Barker’s experienced hands.
Every hour of the day her study of the girl grew more intense in
its interest. She had never seen any girl like her, and Esmeralda’s
manner and conduct completely upset all her preconceived theories.
She had expected the girl to be confused, bewildered, overwhelmed
by the novelty of her position. She had expected her to be
painfully shy at times, and over-bold at others; but Esmeralda,
though she had been suddenly plunged from the wilds of Australia
into the whirlpool of society, seemed neither bewildered nor
overwhelmed. She was not even shy; and, judging by her calmness,
was not even dazzled by the sudden brilliance into which she had
been thrust. And, strange to say, Lady Wyndover had actually
overheard a certain illustrious personage, whose name may not be
mentioned, describe Miss Chetwynde as “good form.”
Since the Blankyres’ party, Esmeralda had been receiving dancing
lessons from a famous professor; and the famous professor had
declared, with something like enthusiasm, that he had never had a
more apt pupil. Although the lessons had been so few, Esmeralda,
by dint of many hours’ practice, had acquired sufficient knowledge
of the Lancers and the simple waltz to be able to accept a partner
without any very serious misgivings.
She had also learned other things; but there was one thing that
Lady Wyndover could not teach her--she would not discriminate
between nobodies and somebodies; she was frank and pleasant with
one and all, and smiled upon the veriest detrimental--especially if
he were good-looking and agreeable--as freely as she did upon the
most noble of the innumerable persons who were introduced to her.
Esmeralda was, at any rate as yet, no respecter of persons. But
Lady Wyndover hoped that this would come in time.
Esmeralda, on this evening, wore the second of her ball-dresses,
and as Lady Wyndover declared, Madame Cerise’s taste had never
been employed to better advantage. The dress was still too low to
altogether please Esmeralda, but as she knew by her two nights’
experience that there were many still lower, she submitted. Their
arrival at Lady Villiers’ created quite a little sensation. The
well-dressed mob in a London ball-room does not shout or wave its
handkerchief, but it can stare and whisper together; and in this,
and in several other ways, it displayed its curiosity and interest.
Esmeralda was very soon surrounded, and her card would have been
filled up to the last item, but she reserved several spaces,
notwithstanding the ardent protests which assailed her.
It was a much more brilliant ball than Lady Blankyre’s, and was
semi-political in its character, for Lord Villiers was in the
Cabinet, and there were members of both Houses present, with
their belongings. As Esmeralda whirled round the room with a tall
guardsman, she was almost inclined to believe that the whole thing
was a dream; or that Three Star camp was a dream, and this the
reality into which she had awakened. She had just got through the
Lancers very creditably, and with that coolness which is born from
perfect self-consciousness, when Lord Trafford entered. She noticed
that he looked pale and tired, and as if he were anything but glad
to be there; and she wondered why he had come. He stood for some
time talking to Lord Villiers, and with his eyes bent on the floor,
but suddenly he raised them, and caught her direct, speculative
gaze. He bowed, and Esmeralda returned the greeting with her frank
smile.
Her face was a little flushed with the dance, her eyes were glowing
with a young girl’s delight in the rhythmical movement, the soft
music, the brilliant scene. He could not deny her beauty, but he
sighed as he thought of Ada Lancing, with her strained face and
pain-stricken eyes. He did not go up to Esmeralda at once, and it
was nearly an hour later when she found him by her side.
“You have been dancing, Miss Chetwynde, I see,” he said. “Have you
a dance to give me, or am I too late?”
He held out his hand for her card, and after a moment’s hesitation
she gave it to him.
“I am not engaged for all,” she said; “but I ought to tell you
that I don’t dance very well. I’ve been practicing for hours at a
time since I saw you last, but I’m very uncertain still; sometimes
I lose the step, if my partner goes too fast, and then there’s
trouble. I think you’d better ask some other lady to dance; you’ll
enjoy it more; besides,” she added, naïvely, “you look tired, and
as if you’d rather rest.” Her simplicity and appalling candor made
him smile.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked.
“You have courage of all kinds,” he said. “To look tired is one of
the unpardonable sins. Will you give me this next dance?”
“Yes; but don’t go too fast, please.”
He put his arm round her, and they started. Trafford danced
as he did most things, perfectly; and he had no difficulty in
accommodating his step to her, now and again, uncertain one.
“We are getting on very well,” he said.
“Yes, that’s because you are taking such care to keep my step,” she
said, shrewdly. “I can go a little faster, if you like.”
It seemed to him like dancing with a young school-girl, perfectly
frank, and almost boyish. Somehow, he found, rather to his
surprise, that he was enjoying it. When the music ceased she drew a
little breath of enjoyment.
“That was delicious,” she said. “I don’t wonder at people looking
so happy at balls! But isn’t it hot?”
“Let us find a cool place,” he said. “You are engaged for this next
dance, are you not?”
“Yes, I am; but if the gentleman comes, I’ll tell him that I’m too
hot.”
“And he’ll go and shoot himself,” said Trafford, with a laugh.
“Will he?” said Esmeralda. “Now, in Three Star he’d have shot you.”
“Three Star?” asked Trafford.
“The place where I lived,” said Esmeralda, hastily.
He saw that she did not desire to give any further explanation, and
he led her on to a balcony. On his way he found her wrap, and as
they stood looking into the green park that lay beneath them, he
put the wrap round her shoulders. Esmeralda leaned on the rails,
and looked down with half-parted lips and thoughtful eyes.
“This is nice,” she said. “The air is so cool, and the trees
look so green and fresh down there.” She leaned over the rail
still further, and looked down, and watched the passers-by on the
pavement below. Some of them paused a moment to listen to the
music, some smiled, and a few glanced at the brilliantly lighted
windows with a scowl.
“How they must wish that they were here,” she said, musingly.
Trafford had been looking at her, but as she spoke he came to her
side and leaned over with her.
“What a lot of poor people there are in London,” she said; “and how
they must hate us who have everything they haven’t got. It doesn’t
seem fair. Now, why should you and I be beautifully dressed, and
be dancing here while these poor people are trudging alone with,
perhaps, not enough clothes to wear or food to eat?”
“Were there no poor people at Three Star, the place you came from?”
he asked, amused by her socialism.
“Oh, yes,” she said; “but we were all together alike. It didn’t
matter whether you were rich or poor; besides, you might be poor
one day and rich the next; that was the fun of it. Now, these poor
people can never be rich; there’s no gold for them to find. Look at
that woman there--see, she’s just coming along--how thin and pale
she looks, and cold, too, though it’s a warm night; she is hungry,
I’m certain; I know the look! I should like to bring her in and
take her in to that great supper-room, and make her eat as much as
she could, and give her plenty of champagne!”
He watched her face curiously.
“I wonder whether she’d be angry if I gave her some money? Perhaps
she’s got some children at home as hungry as she is!”
“It’s not unlikely,” he said.
“You think so?” she said, quickly. “I must give her something!”
She felt round her dress hurriedly; then uttered an exclamation of
impatience and disappointment. “I forgot!” she said; “these stupid
dresses never have pockets. Give me some money; quick!”
Trafford felt in his pocket; but his man, in changing his master’s
clothes, had forgotten to transfer the money.
“I’m sorry!” he said; “I haven’t any.”
“Bother!” she exclaimed. “I can’t be happy any more to-night if I
don’t give her something.” She stamped her foot. “Can’t you get
some? Oh, she’ll be passed before you get back!” The woman was
almost beneath them. Esmeralda, with a little cry of relief,
unfastened one of her bracelets, and bending over the rail,
called softly to the woman. The woman looked up with a little
start, and her face flushed nervously as she saw the girl, in her
exquisite dress, looking down at her. Esmeralda nodded, and smiled
encouragingly, held out the bracelet as far as her extended arm
would allow, then, with a “This is for you!” dropped it at the
woman’s feet. The woman started back slightly, then stood stock
still, as if amazed.
“It’s for you--for _you_!” said Esmeralda. “Pick it up!”
For a moment or two the woman was unable to grasp the good fortune
that had befallen her--literally befallen her; then she picked up
the bracelet that had rolled into the gutter, stared at it, gazed
up at Esmeralda, and, as Esmeralda nodded smilingly, and called
down, “Yes, it’s for you; you are to keep it,” the woman’s face
broke up, as it were, and she burst into tears, caused as much by
the shock as appreciation and gratitude for the gift. Her lips
moved, and both Esmeralda and Trafford felt that she was saying,
“God bless you.” She stood for a moment or two, then hurried on,
but at the corner they saw her stop for a moment or two, and look
back at them, as if she had not as yet even realized what had
happened. Esmeralda turned to Trafford with a laugh, her eyes
sparkling, her face and manner very much indeed like a school-girl.
“I wonder what she will do with it?” she said; “I hope she’ll sell
it at once, and give those children a splendid supper; you said
there were children, you know.”
“Yes,” he said. “You have made two women happy to-night, Miss
Chetwynde.”
“Two?” she said, with surprise. “Oh, I see; you mean myself? Yes;
somehow I do feel happy. I should have been miserable thinking of
that woman’s pale face--and the children, too.”
“Wasn’t it rather a costly gift?” he said. “I noticed that the
bracelet was a handsome one.”
She looked at her arm.
“It was only a plain gold one,” she laughed. “It was your fault;
you ought to have had some money.”
“It was,” he admitted; “and I must atone for it. I must buy you
another.”
He spoke half in jest, half in earnest.
“No, don’t, please,” she said, quite simply; “I’ve too many
already. It takes Lady Wyndover and me half an hour to decide which
I’m to wear. As if it mattered!”
“You don’t care?” he asked.
“No,” she said; “I liked them when they first came home; but I
think they look prettier in the jeweler’s cases than anywhere else.”
“You would not find many persons to agree with you,” he said.
She took the compliment as coolly as if he had remarked that it was
a fine evening.
“Would you like to go back now?” he asked.
“In a minute,” she replied, calmly. “It is beautiful out here, and
it makes me think of the country, as you Londoners call places
outside.”
“You miss the country, as we Londoners call it?” he said.
“Yes, sometimes,” she replied, very softly--“when I’ve time to
think; but that isn’t often, it’s all such a whirl. It’s only when
I’m lying awake that I think of Australia, and sometimes wish
myself back. And then Barker comes in--that’s my maid--and tells me
I must dress; and that we’ve got to go here, there, and everywhere;
to buy this and that and everything; and all day there’s no time to
think.”
He leaned with his back against the rail, and looked at her
thoughtfully. Now, the lovely face was as pensive as that of a
child. The charm of her utter self-unconsciousness, and ignorance
of pose, and absence of straining after effect, was stealing over
him; and when she said, “Now we’ll go in,” he started slightly,
and, with something like reluctance, took her hand upon his arm
and led her back to the ball-room. As they entered they found
themselves face to face with Lady Ada. She was with her partner
in the last dance. The two couples stopped, and Trafford found
himself, perhaps for the first time in his life, bereft of the
power of speech. Lady Ada was very pale, and there were faint
shadows under the blue eyes. He saw her lips tighten and the lids
droop, as if she were wincing; then she recovered herself almost
instantly, and, with a smile, as she returned his bow, said:
“Will you introduce me to Miss Chetwynde, Lord Trafford?”
Her partner bowed himself off, and the three were left alone.
Trafford made the introduction.
“But you have met Miss Chetwynde before, Lady Ada,” he said; “she
is the lady who came to our rescue in the park the other day.”
A flush rose to Lady Ada’s face, then died away, leaving it paler
than before.
“It was stupid and ungrateful of me not to remember you the other
night,” she said. “Will you forgive me, Miss Chetwynde, and let me
thank you again? I know you saved me from what might have been a
very serious accident.”
There was no trace of her usual coldness and hauteur in her voice
and manner; and when these were absent, Lady Ada was a very
charming person indeed. By a look she indicated to Trafford that
she wished him to leave her and Esmeralda together.
He hesitated a moment; he remembered Lady Ada’s words, “I will help
you,” and he wondered what she was going to say to Esmeralda--what
she was going to do. The fact of these two women being together, as
if they were friends, was repugnant to him. However, he did what
every man must do under such circumstances--obey. With a grim look
on his face, he went.