The preparations commenced at once, and they were so vast as to
fill Esmeralda with amazement.
“Why, twenty girls might be going to be married, instead of one,”
she said.
“Yes,” said Lady Wyndover. “But this one is going to marry the
future Duke of Belfayre. My dear, this is going to be _the_ wedding
of the season!”
Madame Cerise was urged to the point of distraction. She was given
_carte blanche_ in the matter of the bridal robe, which Lady
Wyndover intended should surpass anything that had hitherto left
the distinguished artist’s hand; other dresses were also ordered
from Worth and costumes from Redfern. No expense was to be spared.
As Lady Wyndover said: “Why should it be?”
More presents came pouring in. The duke sent a loving message and
a set of pearls, with a reminder that the Belfayre diamonds would
be hers on the day of her wedding. Lilias sent a simple ring, which
had belonged to her mother, and Esmeralda valued it more highly
than anything else she had received.
Trafford sent nothing. He shrunk from buying an expensive present,
which must be paid for, ultimately, with her money.
The days passed rapidly. Lady Wyndover, and all about her, were
kept in a flutter of excitement. The society papers were full
of the coming wedding, spreading themselves over descriptions
of Belfayre and the other ducal places, and hinting at the
magnificence of the bride’s presents and trousseau.
Of all concerned, Esmeralda seemed the calmest. She was perfectly
happy, and would have been as happy if she had been going to marry
Trafford in book muslin and an artificial wreath. She did not see
very much of him during the three weeks, for, when a marquis is
about to be married, he has a great deal of business to go through.
There were lawyers to see, deeds to sign, arrangements to be made,
all of which took up his time. But when they were together, he was
as attentive and devoted as ever.
And, strange to say, he was not unhappy. He felt that he ought to
be so; that he ought to ache with remorse every time he thought of
Ada; but he did not do so. Indeed, he was conscious of a feeling of
satisfaction when he was with Esmeralda. She was so beautiful and
so sweet, and her love for him, which shone in her eyes whenever
he approached, and sung in her voice whenever she spoke to him,
touched him and affected him strangely.
On the night before the marriage, he went round to Grosvenor
Square, and, of course, found everything in a state of confusion.
Esmeralda was having a dress tried on--she declared that she had
spent the whole of the three weeks trying on dresses--but she came
to him presently, picking her way through the disorder of the
drawing-room.
“Isn’t it a terrible fuss!” she said, with a smile, as she put up
her lips for him to kiss.
“Dreadful!” he said, smiling, and looking round. “But it will soon
be over. To-morrow you will be out of all this hullabaloo.”
Esmeralda laughed.
“Lady Wyndover says that we shall feel as if we were out of the
world at Deepdale.” Deepdale was Lady Wyndover’s little place in
Surrey.
“It can not be too quiet,” he said. “More presents?” He glanced at
a table littered with costly offerings.
“Yes,” she said. “They come every hour, and from people I don’t
ever seem to have heard of. We shall want a room to hold them all.
Oh! but I want to show you something. Wait a moment.”
She ran from the room, and returned presently with a small wooden
box, and took from it a little heart made of Australian gold.
“Look!” she said, and her eyes were moist. “Varley Howard--my
guardian, you know--sent it. It came to-day; all the boys sent it.
It is made from gold found in the camp. See, there are three stars
engraved on it, with ‘Love to Esmeralda, from all the Camp.’” Her
eyes filled with tears, and she dashed them away with the back of
her hand. “I must wear that to-morrow,” she said. “I must wear it
always.”
Her emotion seemed touching and charming to him. Notwithstanding
all the adulation she had received, she was still a simple,
tender-hearted girl, this bride-elect of his. He could not help
thinking that Ada Lancing, however she might have valued the gift,
would never have dreamed of wearing it on her wedding-day.
“Yes, wear it always, Esmeralda,” he said. “You must prize it above
everything else you have received.”
“Not quite,” she said, and she glanced shyly at the engagement-ring
on her finger. “Lilias is here,” she said; “but of course she is
trying a dress on. She will be down presently.”
“Never mind Lilias,” he said. “We do not seem to have been alone
together, Esmeralda, for a long time.”
“It is ever so long,” she said.
He lingered some time, and, unconsciously, seemed loath to depart;
and, when he left her, it was with a whispered “Until to-morrow,”
which had a ring in it that was quite new to his voice. He walked
home thinking of the wedding. Now and again the remembrance of Ada
came to trouble him, but he thrust it away from him. He would think
of nothing and no one that night but Esmeralda, the girl he was
going to make his wife, the girl he was going to vow to love and
cherish, the girl who was going to give him so much--her own sweet
self, her wealth, and her love--in exchange for what?
As he opened the door of his sitting-room, some one rose from the
depths of an arm-chair. It was a young man. The lamp was shaded,
and Trafford did not recognize him for a moment.
“Halloo, Traff! Here you are at last!” said a boyish voice.
Trafford uttered an exclamation, and came forward with outstretched
hand.
“Why, Norman!” he cried. “Is it really you? My dear fellow, I _am_
glad to see you.”
The two men grasped and wrung hands, and Norman looked at his
cousin with all the old admiration and devotion; and Trafford’s
grave face lighted up with pleased surprise and affection.
“I’ve astonished you, I expect,” said Norman. “I am about the last
person you expected to see.”
“I am surprised,” said Trafford. “I had not the least idea you were
in England, but thought you were out in the wilds somewhere. Sit
down. Have you dined? Yes? Have something to drink.” His hand went
to the bell, but he checked himself, and got some wine and some
spirits from the cellarette, and filled a glass, as if he wanted to
show by the small act how pleased he was to see Norman. “Now, tell
me all about it,” he said. “When did you arrive?”
“Only a few hours ago,” said Norman. “You can see that, I should
think,” he added, laughingly, as he looked down at his rough and
well-worn traveling-suit. “I came back quite suddenly. I made up my
mind not to come, you know, until I’d made my fortune.” He laughed
shyly. “I’m afraid if I’d waited for that, I should have never seen
you or old England again.”
“I’m sorry, dear old chap; but never mind,” said Trafford. “Have a
cigar.”
Norman lighted up, and leaned back comfortably. “No, it isn’t easy
to make a fortune, Traff, even in the new world. It’s about as
difficult there as it is here, and everybody’s at it.”
“Never mind,” said Trafford again. “We shall all be very glad to
see you back. And you’re looking very well, Norman. Quite tanned
and hard set.”
“Oh! I’m all right,” said Norman; “roughing it suits me, and I’ve
had a very good time of it, take it all together.” His face clouded
for a moment, for he was thinking of Three Star and the girl he had
met there.
“And where have you been?” asked Trafford.
“Oh! all over the place,” said Norman. “Australia, New Zealand, and
so on.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“Oh! all sorts of things. A little of everything. I was head man
at a livery-stable for a time--the man under me was the son of an
Irish viscount. Sounds funny, doesn’t it?” He laughed. “Then I went
to the gold diggings.”
“The gold diggings?” said Trafford, naturally thinking of
Esmeralda. “Where?”
“Oh, round about Ballarat,” said Norman, knocking the ash off his
cigar, and continuing: “But I didn’t have any luck. It was never
my good fortune to find a nugget, though the fellows in the next
claim fished them out by the pailful. It’s all luck, and it was
dead against me.” He suppressed a sigh, for he thought again of
Three Star and Esmeralda.
“It will come, all in good time,” said Trafford. “You’ll make your
fortune yet. But we sha’n’t let you go back to look for it yet
awhile; you’ll have to stay quiet.”
“Well, I sha’n’t be sorry to,” said Norman. “Now, tell me the news.
You’re looking very fit.”
Trafford said he was “all right,” and Norman asked after the duke
and Lilias.
“And Ada Lancing,” he said; “how is she?”
Trafford’s face grew grave. “Very well,” he said.
“And as beautiful as ever, I suppose?” said Norman.
Trafford nodded. “Have some more whisky,” he said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing all the folk,” said Norman.
“Especially the girls,” said Trafford, with a smile. “They’ll be
delighted to welcome their prime favorite back. I hope you’ve come
back heart-whole, old man?”
Norman reddened under his tan, and Trafford, noticing his sudden
confusion, looked at him questioningly. “Got any confession to
make, my dear boy?” he said. “Do you feel inclined to sing, ‘The
Girl I Left Behind Me’?”
The red still remained in Norman’s face. “I haven’t left a girl
behind me in that sense,” he said. “I wish I had. I mean--I’m
afraid I can’t tell you all about it, Traff; but I’ve been hard
hit; so hard hit that the place feels sore.”
“I’m sorry,” said Trafford, quietly, and with ready sympathy. “What
went wrong?”
Norman pulled at his cigar. “It was some one I met abroad,” he
said. “She was the loveliest, sweetest-- But you don’t want me to
rave about her. I was madly in love. I’m madly in love still; but
it wasn’t any use. She said, ‘No,’ and--and I came away and left
her. I’ve been trying to forget her, but I haven’t succeeded very
well. I suppose I shall some day--when I’m ninety, or thereabouts.”
“Poor old chap!” said Trafford. “You’ll tell me all about it some
day.”
“Well, perhaps I may,” said Norman.
“And now what are your plans?” said Trafford.
“Well, I haven’t got any. I shall run down to see the mother
to-morrow; she doesn’t know I’ve come back.”
“I’m almost glad of that,” said Trafford; “because you can’t go
to-morrow. I want you, and can’t spare you, at any rate, until the
evening.”
“All right,” said Norman. “What do you want me for?”
“I want you to assist at my wedding,” said Trafford.
Norman stared, then laughed. “That’s a good joke!” he said.
“A wedding is seldom a joke, to the bridegroom, at any rate,” said
Trafford. “I’m quite in earnest. I wonder you haven’t heard of it!”
Norman stared still harder. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Do you
really mean it? Going to be married! Well! Well, of all the-- Going
to be married! and to-morrow! No; how should I hear of it? They
don’t get the society papers where I’ve been. Who is she? Not Ada?”
Trafford’s brows knit, and he rose and took a turn up and down the
room.
“No, no,” he said. “It is a Miss Chetwynde.”
“Chetwynde?” said Norman. “I don’t remember the name. Do I know
her?”
“No,” said Trafford.
Norman leaned forward in his chair, with eager interest and
excitement.
“I’m awfully glad, old fellow! Tell me all about her. What is she
like? Is she young, pretty?”
“Yes; she is very young,” said Trafford, “and she is very
beautiful. But you will see her to-morrow, and judge for yourself.”
Norman reached for Trafford’s hand, and wrung it. “I congratulate
you, dear old Traff,” he said. “This is jolly news to get the
moment I come back! Where did you meet her?”
“She is a ward of Lady Wyndover’s,” said Trafford.
“Of Lady Wyndover’s?” said Norman. “I don’t remember any ward or
relation of hers of that name.”
“No; she has only recently come under her care.”
“Very young, and very beautiful,” said Norman; “and--and forgive
me, dear old chap--is she rich?”
“She is very rich,” said Trafford, almost grimly. “There is nothing
to forgive. You know how necessary the money is.”
“I know--I know,” said Norman, hastily and shyly. “And you’re going
to be married to-morrow? I long to see her.”
“You shall go round with me to Lady Wyndover’s in the morning,”
said Trafford. “I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned you to Miss
Chetwynde, but it hasn’t been for want of thinking of you.”
“That’s all right,” said Norman.
“If I had known you had been coming back to-night, I would have
asked you to be my best man,” said Trafford. “But I’ve got young
Ffoulkes.”
“That’s all right,” said Norman again.
“You’ll stay here to-night,” said Trafford.
But Norman said that he wanted to get his hair cut, and buy a few
things to smarten him up for so important an occasion, and he went
off to his hotel, but not until Trafford had asked him whether he
wanted any money. Norman said he had enough for the present, at any
rate, though he would have accepted a loan as frankly and readily
as it was offered if he had needed it.
Trafford slept little that night. Soon after breakfast Norman
turned up, beautifully attired in a regulation frock coat, and
a glistening top hat. He looked remarkably handsome, and full
of sympathy with Trafford’s coming joy. If it had been his own
marriage he could not have looked more happy and radiant.
“I don’t know whether it’s quite the right thing for us to go round
to Miss Chetwynde’s, is it, Traff?” he said. “Not having been
married many times, I am not up in the etiquette of the business,
but I’ve an idea that the bridegroom shouldn’t show up at the house
of his bride on the morning of the execution.”
Trafford smiled. “I don’t know anything about it for the same
reason,” he said; “but I should like to see her before we go to the
church. I’m anxious for her to know my best friend.”
“Thanks, old man,” said Norman, with the brusqueness with which
men hide their emotions. “And look here, I found a little trifle,
which I should like to give her, if she’ll accept it. It’s not much
of a thing, but--” He pulled out a small locket, the acquisition
of which had, as he would have put it, nearly brought him to a
condition of “stone broke.”
“You shall give it to her yourself,” said Trafford. “We will go
round there directly. Ffoulkes doesn’t turn up here for another
couple of hours. What a swell you look! Any one would take you for
the bridegroom. I sha’n’t put on my wedding garments till we come
back.”
They walked round to Grosvenor Square, talking together like old
friends and comrades. Norman had no end of adventures by flood and
field to relate, but he said nothing of Three Star or Esmeralda
Howard. For one thing, he did not want to thrust his disappointment
upon Trafford’s joy.
The footman looked rather doubtful when Trafford inquired if he
could see Miss Chetwynde.
“I’ll send up word to her, my lord,” he said, as he showed the two
gentlemen into the drawing-room.
“Perhaps we ought not to have come, after all,” said Norman. Then
they heard a light step on the stairs; but it was Ada Lancing, not
Esmeralda. She was very pale, and she looked startled.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly, and as if she
did not see Norman.
“No, no,” said Trafford, gravely. The sight of her was not very
welcome to him. “Here is Norman; don’t you see him? He only came
back last night, and I had a fancy to bring him round this morning.”
“Oh, yes--yes,” she said, recovering herself, and holding out her
hand. “I thought something had happened, by your coming.”
“What should happen?” he said, simply.
“Nothing--nothing!” she responded, with a quick little breath. “How
delightful of you to come back just at this moment, Norman. How
well you’re looking!” She turned to Trafford. “I will tell her you
are here,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know whether she can
come down; she is dressing.”
She left them, and presently they heard another step descending the
stairs. The door opened, and Esmeralda entered. She had her bridal
dress on, but not the veil, and she had hastily caught up a white
wrap and thrown it around her. She had not been startled at hearing
that Trafford was there, and had come down with that soft light in
her eyes which always shone in them when she came to meet him; but
it fled as her eyes rested upon Norman, and in its place there rose
a swift look of surprise and terror. Her face went white as the
bridal dress, and with a cry she shrunk back.
Norman stood for a moment, as if turned to stone; then, with a cry
of “Esmeralda!” he half sprung forward. Esmeralda put out her hand,
as if to keep him back; and so they stood gazing at each other,
troubled amazement in his eyes, confusion in hers. In that instant
the folly of the silence respecting Norman Druce burst upon her
with overwhelming force. An ordinary girl, used to the ways of the
world, would not have been overwhelmed or very much confused, but,
to Esmeralda’s simple nature, her secrecy assumed the dimensions of
a crime.
Trafford looked from one to the other in amazement. “What is the
matter?” he demanded.
“Yes; what is the matter?” repeated Ada’s voice, just behind
Esmeralda. She had followed her down in time to witness the mutual
recognition and its startling effect.
Esmeralda seemed incapable of speech; but Norman, calling all his
strength and spirit to the effort, partially recovered himself,
and, with a ghastly smile, said:
“It’s all right. It’s my fault. I startled Miss Howard--”
“Miss Howard?” said Ada, looking swiftly from him to Esmeralda,
with cold, sharp eyes.
“Yes,” said Norman. “Miss--Miss Chetwynde, I mean, of course. She
was Miss Howard when I--I met her.”
“I don’t understand,” said Trafford. He looked at Esmeralda, and
waited. “Where did you meet?”
The color was coming back to Esmeralda’s face. She looked at
Trafford appealingly; but before she could speak, Norman again came
to her rescue.
“I met Miss Howard--I mean, Miss Chetwynde--at a place called
Three Star Camp. I didn’t know she had changed her name.” He
smiled, a little less ghastly. “I was as startled as if I had seen
a ghost--not expecting to see her, don’t you see--and I expect
Miss Chetwynde was just as startled.” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s
a nervous time, and I hope Miss Chetwynde will forgive me for
springing myself upon her like a Jack-in-the-box.”
He drew a long breath; he had done his best. Trafford accepted the
explanation quite unreservedly. It was little wonder that Esmeralda
should be nervous and easily upset that morning.
“You are not frightened now,” he said, with a smile, laying his
hand gently and caressingly on her arm. She turned to him timidly,
and yet eagerly.
“No, no,” she said. “I--I meant to tell you!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Trafford, soothingly. “Norman is my
dearest, closest chum, and I brought him round--”
“Yes,” said Norman, hurriedly. “I ought not to have come. Please
forgive me, Miss Chetwynde.”
Ada Lancing had been watching with sharp curiosity and suspicion.
She broke in now with:
“Esmeralda, you must not stay. You really must not! There is so
much to do still.”
“Yes, yes; we will go,” said Trafford. He kissed Esmeralda’s hand.
She turned, as she left the room, and looked at both men. There
was the same appealing expression in her eyes as they rested upon
Trafford.
“This is a strange coincidence,” he said, as the two men left the
house.
“Yes; isn’t it?” assented Norman, with a laugh that sounded awful
in his own ears. The houses seemed whirling round him, the sky
pressing down upon his head. Trafford going to marry Esmeralda!
Trafford going to marry Esmeralda! The sentence kept repeating
itself in his brain in a maddening fashion.
“To think that you and she should be old friends!” said Trafford,
with a laugh. There was not an atom of suspicion in his mind. “You
called her Esmeralda, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” said poor Norman. “Yes; I think I did. It--it slipped out
in the moment of surprise.” Trafford must never know that Esmeralda
was the girl he had loved and could not forget. “You see, out in
the wilds there, people soon get to calling each other by their
Christian names. It’s--it’s not so formal, and all that, in a
diggers’ camp.”
“No; I suppose not!” said Trafford. “I am very glad that you are
friends already. By the way, old man, you forgot, in the excitement
of your surprise, to give Esmeralda that little present.”
“Yes; so I did,” said Norman, with a smile that seemed to cost him
a broken heart. “Stupid of me, wasn’t it? I’ll give it to her later
on!”