Esmeralda went to her room that night with her head throbbing and
her heart aching. The sight of Trafford bending over Lady Ada
at the piano had almost driven her mad; it had made her quite
desperate, and the laughter and applause with which she had
encouraged Norman had something of recklessness in it. She did not
acknowledge to herself that she had meant to play him against Lady
Ada; to show Trafford that, if he did not love his wife, there was
some one else who did, but she knew the effect she had produced,
and the remembrance of Lady Ada’s smile of comprehension stung
her as she tore off her jewels. The sight of them filled her with
loathing. They were so magnificent that every one who saw them
upon her must be reminded of the fact that she was the rich Miss
Chetwynde. Perhaps everybody knew that Trafford had married her for
her money, and was laughing at her contemptuously in their sleeves.
As for Norman, he went to bed very well content with himself. He
had said what he wanted to say to Esmeralda, and put things square
between them, as he phrased it, and everything was now very jolly
and pleasant. It had been all fancy, that idea of his that she
might be unhappy--just fancy. Never for a moment did it occur to
him to desire to flirt with Esmeralda; he was incapable of such
disloyalty to his friend and hero Trafford. Esmeralda’s behavior at
the piano, her laughter and reckless gravity, did not convey any
sinister significance to him; it was just her way to laugh and let
her eyes sparkle like her diamonds when she was happy; and no doubt
the songs he had sung had reminded her of Three Star.
If he could have seen and understood the smile which gleamed in
Lady Ada’s cold eyes as she undressed that night, he would not
have felt quite so serene and self-satisfied. It is said that
there is a good deal of the serpent in every woman, but Lady Ada
was all serpent as she stood before the glass looking at her
“faultily faultless” face, and recalling the scene at the piano and
Trafford’s frown. If she could only separate Trafford from the girl
he had married! She had no plan deftly formed as yet, but--well,
she would wait and watch. Meanwhile, things promised well.
The neighbors flocked to call upon Lady Trafford, and
dinner-parties were arranged in her special honor, and it was
agreed on all sides that she bore herself remarkably well. The men
raved about her beauty quite as much as, if not more than they had
done, before her marriage, and the women wondered at the coolness
and _aplomb_ with which the young girl, who was a “mere nobody”
before her marriage, took her place in the ranks of the nobility.
Only one or two of the elder ones noticed something strange in her
expression, something vaguely and indefinitely puzzling in her
manner. They all agreed that matrimony had not lightened Trafford’s
gravity, and that he was rather more absent-minded and reserved
than ever, excepting when his wife was speaking or any attention
was due to her from him.
“He is evidently devoted to her,” remarked Lady Chesterleigh, after
the Belfayres had departed. “I never saw a man more hopelessly in
love.”
“And no wonder,” retorted her husband, with a yawn. “She’s the most
beautiful young woman I have ever seen, present company excepted,
my dear, and his marriage has pulled Belfayre out of the mire
and set it on its legs again. Devoted! I should think so! He has
reason, as the French say.”
No one suspected the truth, that husband and wife were divided
by that gulf which had so suddenly opened between them on their
wedding-night.
Outwardly it was a very happy party at Belfayre. Norman, for one,
was enjoying himself amazingly. Esmeralda had promised to treat him
as her “special” friend; she had dispelled, by her gayety, the idea
that she was unhappy, and his light heart rose buoyantly. He was a
general favorite at Belfayre, and even the duke liked to hear him
talk, and forgave him the slang which Norman had always to explain
and translate into ordinary English for his grace’s enlightenment.
It was very amusing to see them together; the old man the picture
of courtly preciseness, the young one full of _fin de siècle_
gayety and careless, easy irresponsibility.
“Not a bad run, you know, sir,” he would remark, in the midst of a
description of a race--the duke was always pleased to hear of the
great events of the outer world into which he so seldom entered.
“Soup Ladle ought to have won; all the pencilers had the spondulacs
upon her; but she ran wild and all over the shop--”
At this point his grace would look puzzled, and, with a smile,
remarked gently:
“Forgive me, my dear Norman, but I’m afraid I do not quite
understand. I fear that you will think that I am growing stupid.
Who are the ‘pencilers,’ and what are ‘spondulacs?’ and--I think
you said that the horse with the ridiculous name ran into a shop.
Is there any shop near the course? I do not remember it.”
Then Norman would laugh and look guiltily at Lilias, who often sat
in the garden with them and listened with intense amusement; and
she would smile and shake her head as much as to say that she would
not help him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Norman would explain, with a
suppressed groan. “Quite forgot I wasn’t talking to one of the
other Johnnies--I mean, fellows. The book-makers are called
pencilers--they book their bets with metallic pencils, you know;
and spondulacs is money, and when I say that Soup Ladle ran all
over the shop, I mean that she was all over the course.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” the duke would say. “Quite so. It was very stupid
of me; but--my dear Norman, I am quite out of the world, and am
ignorant of its jargon.”
“That’s all right, sir,” Norman would say, encouragingly; and
start off again, with a nod of self-satisfaction to Lilias and a
whispered “Got off that time; shall catch it some day, though; and
serve me right.”
Lilias ought to have been shocked at the young man’s slang and
general levity, but, strange to say, she was not. Your very quiet
and exquisitely mannered women are always attracted by the wild
and rough-and-ready way of the other sex. It is the law of natural
selection.
She liked to listen to Norman’s stories, and his laugh--frequent
and not seldom rather loud--did not jar upon her; and Norman, half
unconsciously, got into the habit of going about with her and
talking to her. Though she insisted that Esmeralda should be the
“mistress” at Belfayre, and always consulted her upon all important
matters connected with the huge household, Lilias still, in
reality, “ran” the place, and she often found Norman at her elbow
at busy moments. He wanted her to go for a walk, or a ride, or to
play tennis with him; and when she declared that she was busy with
the housekeeper, or arranging the _menu_ for a lunch or dinner, he,
after a slight remonstrance, dropped into a chair beside her, and,
as she put it, “hindered” her terribly.
“You’ve made me put down the wrong soup and leave out one of the
_entrées_,” she would say. “Can’t you find something to amuse
yourself with for half an hour?”
“I’d scorn to amuse myself when I can be helping you,” he would
retort. “If it were not for my assistance you would break down
under the weight of your duties. Now, when you’ve muddled that bill
of fare as much as you want to, hand it over to me and I’ll set
it straight for you, and without extra charge. And look here; I
wish you’d tell the butler to tell the second footman--I think his
name is Grooms--not to spill the melted butter down my coat when
he is laughing at my jokes. I’m a poor young man, and have only
one dress-coat in the world, and Grooms ought to have more human
sympathy. Oh! come on, and let the housekeeper finish that thing;
she’ll do it far better than you can. I’ve got the balls and your
racket.”
“Why don’t you ask Esmeralda or Ada to play with you?” Lilias would
ask.
“Esmeralda has got a headache, and is sitting with the duke in
the west arbor, and Lady Ada has gone for a ride with Traff and
Selvaine.”
“And so you come to me because there is no one else?” Lilias would
say, with affected indignation.
“Exactly--that’s it,” would be the cool response. “So come on.” And
in the end he would have his way, and, protesting that he was a
nuisance, Lilias would put on her tennis-shoes, which he had in his
pocket, and they would go off together, and Esmeralda would hear
Lilias’s soft ripple and his clear laugh where she sat beside the
duke.
The old man seemed to grow fonder of her every day, and Esmeralda’s
affection for him was almost piteous. He was the only person in
the Belfayre group who did not think of her money--who had not
abetted her marriage to Trafford with mercenary views. They were
very much together; he seldom went into the grounds without her,
and very often she went to his own sitting-room and read to him.
Sometimes they would sit for half an hour without talking, and his
grace would glance at her occasionally or take her hand and pat it.
If her unhappiness dawned upon his dimmed perceptions, he never
spoke of it; but once or twice he had looked at her curiously. His
pride in her was extraordinary, and on the morning of the great
dinner-party at the Court, he actually asked her what she was going
to wear.
Esmeralda laughed softly, then stifled a sigh.
“I don’t know,” she said; “Barker generally settles it. It does not
matter. But it is very kind of you to ask, duke.”
They were sitting by the open window of his room. Lilias was with
the housekeeper, Norman lounging at the door and “hindering,” as
Lilias declared, and Trafford and Ada were walking up and down the
terrace. Esmeralda could see them from where she sat. Trafford was
pacing slowly, with his head bent and his hands behind him; Ada
gliding gracefully by his side, and now and again looking up at him
with the expression on her face which always set Esmeralda’s heart
beating.
How much longer could she endure the sight of them together?
“I take an interest in everything concerning you, my dear,” said
the duke. “I have not had a daughter until now, and my interest
has been accumulating, you see. It is to be a large party, is it
not?”
“Yes,” said Esmeralda, absently, “I think so. Yes, it is,” she
added, turning her eyes from the two persons below. “We have asked
everybody.”
“That is right,” he said, approvingly. “Belfayre has been quiet too
long; it is only fitting that we should be hospitable, and on a
large scale. I hope I shall be well enough to be at dinner. In any
case, I shall come into the drawing-room afterward, if only to see
you, my dear. By the way, you know that I have given instructions
to the surveyors to begin the Bay plans?”
The famous watering-place scheme had dropped out of sight lately,
and Esmeralda had almost forgotten it. She started as the duke
referred to it. She understood. It was her money that was to work
the miracle.
She laughed with a touch of bitterness, for which she was sorry a
moment afterward. After all, it was the best use the money could be
put to; it would amuse and gratify this old man who loved her for
herself and not her millions.
“I am very glad,” she said.
“Yes,” he went on, “I tell them they must be as quick as possible.
I should like something tangible accomplished before I pass
away. I want them to build the pier or the esplanade, and I hope
that you will lay the foundation stone, or whatever it may be. I
should like to see you inaugurate this scheme, my dear, to have it
associated with you. You always thought well of it, did you not?
I have fancied that the others--even Trafford and Selvaine--were
rather lukewarm about it, until these last few days and since your
marriage.”
Esmeralda understood. It had only been since her marriage that the
scheme had become possible.
“I shall take the greatest interest in it,” she said. “We will go
down, you and I, and watch the workmen; and when the foundation
stone is laid we will have a tremendous feast and paint the whole
place red.”
The duke looked at her doubtfully.
“Would not red be--be rather a staring color, my dear--all red?” he
said, mildly.
Esmeralda laughed.
“That was only slang, like Norman’s. I mean, that we shall have a
great fuss and jollification.”
“Yes, yes,” he assented, nodding. “It shall be done, my dear;
anything that will give you pleasure and amuse you.”
Esmeralda left him presently, nodding his head and talking softly
to himself, and went to her own room. The prospect of that night’s
dinner irritated and annoyed her. The great crowd would come
to stare at her and whisper about her wealth and her “luck” in
marrying a marquis, and she would have to go about among them and
talk and smile--smile though her heart was breaking. She moved
about the room restlessly for a time, then went into the garden,
carefully avoiding crossing the terrace where Trafford and Ada were
talking, and suddenly came upon Norman lying full length in the
shade of a bay-tree. A tennis racket was by his side, and a straw
hat tilted over his eyes. He heard her step, and sprung to his feet
with a sigh of relief.
“Some one to talk to at last,” he said.
Esmeralda smiled.
“Thanks!” she said. “Where is Lilias. I thought you were playing
tennis.”
“So did I,” he said, ruefully; “but it always appears we are
not. Somebody comes and fetches her away in the middle of every
game. It’s this confounded dinner-party to-night. I wonder why
people give dinners? Everybody hates them and avoids them when
they can. There is more envy, hatred, and uncharitableness bred
at a dinner-party than by anything else on earth. Take my case,
for instance. Here am I, an able-bodied young man, simply dying
to amuse myself--and some one else--and yet I am deserted and
neglected, and driven to smoking all the morning, just because
there is a dinner-party.”
“I’m not worrying about it,” she said, sinking on to the grass;
“and there is--Trafford.”
“Oh, Trafford,” he said, disgustedly. “He seems to have dropped
tennis and everything that is wholesome. He and Ada have been
stalking up and down the terrace talking books or the improvement
of the working classes, as if they weren’t bad enough already. If I
went and asked Trafford or Ada to play, they’d stare and smile at
me in the superior way that makes a man want to go and shy stones
at his grandfather. And as for Lilias--well, I’d better not express
my sentiments about that young lady.”
Esmeralda looked at him curiously. His voice had dropped as he
spoke Lilias’s name.
“Any one would think that the whole place would come to a
standstill if she didn’t fuss around with the housekeeper and
the butler and the steward and the rest of them. What do the
housekeeper and the butler do for their wages, I should like to
know? Any one would think Lilias was the manager of a hotel.”
“Yes,” said Esmeralda, quietly. “It is I who ought to do all she
does, and fuss around.”
“Oh--you?” he said, quickly. “That’s different. No one expects you
to do anything but”--he looked at her with a quaint mixture of
admiration and devotion--brotherly devotion--“but just exist and
look beautiful.”
Esmeralda did not blush.
“Thanks,” she said again.
“Oh, it’s quite different with you,” he went on. “And it’s all
right that Lilias should look after things.”
“But she need not neglect you in doing so,” said Esmeralda, naïvely.
“Exactly,” he said, calmly, but with a little heightened color.
“Why don’t you tell her so?”
His color deepened, and he glanced at her wistfully.
“I wish I dared,” he said under his breath.
“I’ve not remarked any great lack of courage on your part in that
way,” said Esmeralda, dryly.
“Oh, no; I’ve got cheek enough for most things,” he assented, with
a sigh. “But--but-- Isn’t she--isn’t she--”
Esmeralda laughed softly.
“Yes; she is the sweetest and dearest girl in all the world,” she
said. “And you are just finding it out? Ah, how happy you must be!”
And she sighed.
“Happy!” He flushed. “I don’t see where the happiness comes in. You
appear to forget that I am a pauper, Esmeralda.”
“Yes,” she said, gravely. “I forgot that. The hateful money!”
The words burst from her with fierce energy. “What does it
matter? Do you think you would be any the happier if you
had--yes”--bitterly--“all my money? If you love her you can tell
her so, and if she loves you--marry her right away.”
Norman stared at her breathlessly, then laughed ruefully.
“You’d better let Lord Selvaine--he’s one of her guardians, you
know--hear you offering that advice. He’d have a fit--no, he
wouldn’t, because nothing ever throws him over; but he’d smile and
ask me when I thought of going back to my lunatic asylum.”
“And you could tell him to go to his,” said Esmeralda, her eyes
flashing. “You could tell him that the people who are mad are those
who sell themselves and their wretched little souls for money.
Money--money! I hate the sound of it. And you are in love with
Lilias?” she said, after a pause, recovering herself, and with a
little smile.
Norman looked rather ashamed of himself, and Esmeralda laughed a
little wearily.
“There’s no occasion to look like that,” she said, in a way that
reminded him of Three Star. “Why shouldn’t you be in love with her
or any one else?” She laughed. “You don’t think I mind?” for Norman
still looked uncomfortable. “Why should you keep on remembering
what--what happened ever so long ago--when I’d quite forgotten
it?” she added, rather cruelly. “And I don’t see how you could
help falling in love with her, and I think you’ll be a very lucky
young man if you can persuade her to fall in love with you. And
mind,” she went on, almost fiercely, “if you can get her, _marry
her_! Never mind being a pauper, never mind people telling you that
because you haven’t any money of your own you ought to marry some
wretched girl who has. Shall I tell you what would happen if you
did?”
Norman stared at her as she stood before him with pale face and
somber eyes, behind which lay something which mystified him.
“She’ll hate you, and you’ll hate yourself, and wish that you’d
married the girl you loved, though you’d only a loaf of bread to
share with her!”
Norman was almost frightened, and seeing it, Esmeralda controlled
herself and forced a laugh.
“You see I’m an old married woman, Norman,” she said, with a
reckless gayety. “And so I’m allowed to bully you. See?” She
almost ran away from him, and left Norman with his hat tilted far
back on his head and a bewildered look in his blue eyes; also the
conviction that no man alive could ever understand a woman.
Esmeralda had forgotten all about Trafford and Ada on the terrace,
and was not aware that they had both been witnessing her interview
with Norman, though they were too far off to hear a word. Trafford
had watched the animated little scene with gloomy eyes, and Ada
with a significant smile; he went down the steps as Esmeralda
approached the terrace with her swift, light step. He saw that she
was flushed, and that there was something like tears in her eyes.
He looked from her to Norman, who still stood, a nice study for a
statue of Perplexity.
Esmeralda was about to pass him, but he stopped her with a question.
“Have you been playing tennis?” he asked.
She looked at him for a moment, as if she had not heard, then she
said, unsuspectingly:
“No; I’ve only been talking to Norman.”
“Judging by appearances,” he said, “it must have been an
interesting conversation.”
“It was,” she said. She looked at him wistfully for a moment,
thinking that if all were well between them, how she should like
to tell him of Norman’s secret, how she should like to plan with
him some way of giving Norman the money which would enable him
to ask for Lilias; but she remembered the gulf between them--the
sight of Ada leaning on the terrace rail reminded her forcibly
of it--and she remained silent. Trafford stood still, his face
overcast, struggling against the growth of the suspicion which Ada
had planted in his mind, and which Esmeralda’s conduct and manner
seemed to justify. She waited a moment or two as if to see if he
wished to say anything more to her, then went into the house. As
they passed her, Ada said: “How hot it is!” and Esmeralda made the
proper response and gave a suitable smile. She met Lilias in the
hall.
“There is a young man waiting for you, dear,” she said, “with a
tennis racket in his hand and bad words in his mouth.”
Lilias blushed ever so faintly and sweetly.
“You mean Norman?” she said. “I told him I was too busy to
play--but he is so foolish!”
“Go and be foolish, too,” said Esmeralda. She bent and kissed
Lilias impulsively.
Lilias looked a little startled, and went out rather slowly, and
Esmeralda went up to her own room. As the day wore on, the coming
dinner-party began to make itself felt, and quite half an hour
before the usual time Barker came in to dress her. Esmeralda
was lying down; she had been pacing up and down the room until
she had nearly worn herself out, and she received Barker with a
listlessness and indifference which filled that young woman with
dismay.
“I thought you’d like to be dressed in good time, my lady, so that
you can go down to the drawing-room before the party arrives. Of
course, you’ll wear white velvet with the diamonds and sapphires?”
“I’ll wear anything you like,” said Esmeralda.
Barker got out the magnificent dress with a reverent care, and
Esmeralda submitted herself to the robing with a dull kind of
apathy. Barker grew anxious and tried to rouse her mistress’s
interest.
“If you’d only just look in the glass, my lady,” she said. “It
really is superb! And there won’t be anything like it in the room.
They used to talk about Lady Desford’s pearl satin, but this
completely effaces it.”
“Effaces is a good word,” said Esmeralda. She turned to the tall
pier glass and looked at the reflection. She knew that Barker had
spoken the truth--it was superb. The combination of the soft tones
of the white velvet with the magnificent diamonds and sapphires
was simply perfect. Devoid of vanity as she was, a little thrill
ran through her; she realized that it was not only the dress and
the gems which were beautiful. Then, suddenly, with a pang, she
remembered that it was all of no use; the man she loved loved her
not. He had married her for her money; to him her beauty would be
as nothing; he would have no eyes for any one but Ada Lancing. She
turned suddenly to Barker.
“Take these off!” she said. Every one, as they gazed at her, would
say that the Marquis of Trafford had married her for the wealth
which the dress and the jewels proclaimed. “Take them off!”