Esmeralda passed into the drawing-room, and left Trafford standing
behind the bank of ferns. He had entered the fernery almost
immediately after she had done so, and had been going to speak to
her, to tell her of his love once more, and to plead with her, when
Norman had entered.
Trafford had intended to leave them at once, but something
had prevented him--a vague feeling of coming evil, and he had
remained--remained to witness the interview. He could only hear a
word now and again, but he had seen Norman’s agitation, had seen
him kiss Esmeralda. It was the faint groan that had burst from
Trafford’s lips which Esmeralda had heard. What he had seen had
seemed to him irrefutable evidence of her guilt.
He stood still as a stone, and almost as cold. Esmeralda, who had
been to him the embodiment of purity and honor, loved Norman, and
had brought dishonor upon her husband. It was not only her wounded
pride at the discovery that he had married her for her money which
had kept them apart, but an illicit and dishonorable love for
another man.
The place reeled before him. He was incapable of action, almost of
thought. What should he do? His first impulse, when his brain had
cleared a little, was to follow Norman, and charge him with his
baseness, to wreak the vengeance of an injured husband, a betrayed
friend. He moved a few steps, putting out his hand toward the
pedestal of a statue, to support himself, for he was trembling and
scarcely able to stand, and as he moved toward the door, he heard
the rustle of a dress, and looking round vaguely and dimly, saw
Lady Ada. She, too, had witnessed the scene, and was as convinced
of Norman’s and Esmeralda’s guilt as was Trafford himself. It
soothed her conscience, and made her task easier. Her heart was
beating furiously, but she smiled and fanned herself slowly as she
came forward.
“Oh, are you here, Trafford?” she said, as if she had just entered.
“I was looking for Esmeralda.”
He drew back, so that his face was in the shadow of a palm.
“What do you want with her?” he asked, hoarsely.
She affected not to notice the change in his voice.
“I have something of hers I want to restore to her,” she said,
with a little laugh. “I borrowed some ribbons and things from her
a little while ago, and this must have been among them. I did not
notice it until I got to my own room. It is an old letter; I don’t
suppose it is of any importance--I haven’t read it, of course--but
she may like to have it back.”
He held out his hand mechanically, and she extended the letter, but
drew it back slightly.
“I needn’t trouble you,” she said. “I shall see her in the
drawing-room.” His hand dropped, but she held out the letter again.
“Perhaps you had better take charge of it,” she said, carelessly;
“I may lose it; for, of course, I haven’t a pocket to put it in.”
He took the letter, and humming an air which was being played on
the piano, she passed him and left the fernery. Trafford held
the letter for a moment or two; then, as mechanically as before,
looked at it and read it. For a brief second its significance did
not strike him, and when he realized its full import, it did not
startle him. Coming after what he had seen, it appeared to be just
another link in the chain of damning evidence.
He crushed the letter in his hand, then let it fall upon the ground
and put his foot upon it. He understood now why Esmeralda had been
so startled at meeting Norman on her wedding-morning. A hundred
little circumstances rose in his mind to help to condemn her. His
heart was torn with conflicting emotions; there was wounded love,
outraged honor, the terrible ruin of all his faith and trust. But
with it all there was a feeling that the gods had only meted out to
him bare justice. He had married her for her money; when proposing
to her, he had not spoken of love; well, she had given him her
money, she had bestowed her love upon Norman!
And now, what should he do? Should he go into the drawing-room and
take Norman by the throat? Should he proclaim his wife’s dishonor
before the brilliant mob there?
He felt strongly impelled to do so; then he thought of the scandal,
the open shame, his father, Lilias, and he stood irresolute.
Besides, even at that moment his love pleaded for her. She was so
young, so inexperienced; there had been no one to help her, to
stretch out a hand and pluck her from the brink of the precipice.
No! he could not proclaim her guilt.
He wiped the cold sweat from his face, and went out into the night.
The party was already beginning to disperse when Esmeralda
re-entered the drawing-room, and as the guests made their adieus
they one and all spoke of the delightful evening they had spent,
and congratulated the marchioness upon her brilliant dinner-party.
They looked round for Trafford to wish him good-night, but some one
said he was in the hall, and they passed out.
Esmeralda stood by the door, the smile with which she had bidden
her guests farewell fading from her face. She looked very tired,
and she stretched out her bare arms with a little weary gesture.
“What a success!” said Lady Ada. “My dear Esmeralda, you have had a
triumph!”
She, too, looked pale, and her lips were drawn tightly.
“Yes, it has been a very pleasant evening,” said Esmeralda,
absently; “but, oh, how tired one gets!”
“We must go to bed at once,” said Lilias, putting her arm round
her. “It is no use waiting for Trafford and Norman; they will be
sure to have gone to the smoking-room; they always fly there as if
they were dying for a cigar.”
The three ladies went upstairs. Lady Ada wished Esmeralda and
Lilias a more than usually affectionate good-night, and went into
her own room. Lilias followed Esmeralda into hers; Esmeralda went
and threw the window wide open and drew a long breath. Lilias stood
beside her and put her arm round her waist.
“How proud and happy you must be to-night, dear,” she said,
lovingly. “You have covered us all with glory; there has not been
such a party at Belfayre since I can remember. But what made you
wear that muslin frock to-night?”
“A whim,” said Esmeralda.
“It was a very clever whim,” said Lilias, with a laugh. “You
outshone them all. I shouldn’t be surprised if plain muslin frocks
became the fashionable evening wear next season. What a relief it
was to the glitter and the glare!” She looked at the slight figure
admiringly. “You look such a girl to-night!” she said.
“And I feel so very, very old,” said Esmeralda, almost to herself.
Then she started slightly, and drew back from the window. “There is
some one down there on the terrace,” she said.
Lilias looked out.
“It is Trafford or Norman,” she said.
“It is Trafford,” said Esmeralda.
“Yes, so I see,” said Lilias.
“Love’s eyes are quick,” said Esmeralda in a low voice and with a
smile. “You would have recognized Norman, would you not?”
There was a gentle significance in the question which brought the
color to Lilias’s face. Esmeralda said no more, and both girls
stood in silence and watched the solitary figure pacing up and down
between them; then Lilias kissed Esmeralda.
“I must not keep you up, dear,” she said. “I am so happy to-night!
I think it is because you are here--because I have found a sister
to love and to love me.”
Esmeralda took the sweet face in her hands.
“Perhaps some day you will have some one else to love you, dear,”
she said. “Good-night.”
Lilias went, and Barker came. Esmeralda was sitting by the open
window.
“Leave me alone for a little while,” she said. “I am too tired to
undress. Will you give me some water before you go?”
Barker gave her mistress some water, then went down-stairs to
continue the discussion of the party in the servants’ hall.
Esmeralda leaned back with her eyes closed. She could hear her
husband’s footsteps as he paced restlessly on the terrace below.
Her husband’s! A wave of bitterness swept over her as she thought
of the misery that hung like a dark cloud over her life. At that
moment, doubtless, he was thinking of Lady Ada; perhaps wishing
that he had not “married for money!” She clasped her hands
tightly and pressed her lips together to keep back the tears that
threatened to rise. She heard the door open, but thinking it was
Barker, did not turn her head. Then she became conscious that the
footsteps were heavier than those of Barker, and, looking up, she
saw that it was Trafford. In her surprise and amazement she did not
move, but sat and gazed at him.
He had never entered her room before. Why had he come to-night? A
sudden hope shot warmly through her heart, and the blood began to
rise in her face; then it died away again, for as he came forward
into the light of the softly shaded lamp, she saw his face and
noted its haggard and stern expression. There was something in
his dark eyes that she had never seen there before--a terrible
sternness which added a vague terror to her surprise at his
presence.
“Trafford!” she said.
She rose and stood in her white dress, her hands by her side, her
face turned toward him. He looked at her long and fixedly; then, as
if he had remembered, he turned back and locked the door and stood
beside it, still looking at her with the terrible sternness which
was slowly making fear predominant in her heart.
“What is the matter?” she asked. “Why have you come?”
It seemed as if he had almost lost the power of speech, there was
so long a pause after her tremulous question.
“Do you not know?” he said, at last, and his voice was hoarse
and stern. “I have come to speak to you, Esmeralda, for the last
time. Let there be as few words as possible between us. I have
been thinking over your shameful secret, and I have arrived at a
decision regarding your future--and mine.”
Esmeralda gazed at him, speechless. Had he gone mad? “Shameful
secret!” What did he, what _could_ he mean?
“My--my shameful secret!” she said, dully. “What is it that you
mean?”
“Spare us both!” he said, sternly. “Do not force me to formulate
the wrong you have done me. Let it be taken for granted that my
knowledge of your sin is as full and complete as your own.”
“My sin--my sin!” she said, not indignantly, not yet angrily, but
with an overwhelming amazement and fear; for she thought that in
very truth he had gone mad.
He looked at her steadily.
“I was behind the bank in the fernery to-night,” he said in a low
voice.
“Well?” she demanded.
The rage in his heart flamed in his face for a moment, then left it
white again.
“You are an admirable actress,” he said. “But your art is thrown
away. I was in the fernery and saw you and Norman together. I saw
all--the whole shameful scene.”
Her breath came fast, the color mounted to her brow and dyed her
neck. A light, a fierce light, began to gather in her eyes. She was
beginning to understand; slowly, very slowly at first; for, in her
innocence, it seemed so incredible that Trafford--Trafford, of all
men!--should for one single instant believe her capable of such
vileness as his words implied. She opened her lips to laugh, but he
went on before the laugh came.
“Do not speak, do not attempt to deny your guilt. Words can be of
no avail between us. You can not say anything in extenuation of the
wrong you have done me which my heart has not already pleaded for
you. You, too, have been wronged.”
She started slightly, and her face went white. He was confessing
his love for Ada! Her heart hardened to adamant at that moment, and
she thought no more of laughter.
“I am justly punished,” he went on; “I accept my punishment. You
thought I did not love you; I know with what bitterness against me
your heart was filled--it is only natural that you should love him,
that your heart should turn to the man who loved you before we met.”
“I love Norman!” she said, more to herself than to him. The denial
implied by her words roused his anger again.
“You can not deny it,” he said, between his teeth. “I have seen you
together! Do you think I have forgotten your manner when I brought
him to you, thinking you were strangers? And if I wanted clearer
proof of the vile truth, I have it here.”
He held out the letter. She recognized it in a moment. The blood
surged to her face, her lips moved, she was on the point of crying
out: “It is true he loves me, but I never loved him; I have never
spoken a word of love to him in all my life. It was of Lilias we
were talking; it was for Lilias--the kiss.” Then the recollection
of Lady Ada flashed upon her; he had confessed that he loved her.
Her pride rose like a tide and swept away all softer emotions.
This man she loved had married her for her money while loving
another woman, and now dared to deem her guilty of the worst crime
of which a woman and a wife can be capable. Well, let him think her
so! She would not utter one word of denial, she would scorn to do
so.
The color faded from her face, she drew herself up to her full
height, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving. It was not only
Esmeralda of Three Star Camp but the Marchioness of Trafford that
spoke in every line of her face, in the almost imperial gesture
with which she extended her hand.
“That letter is mine!” she said, defiantly and haughtily. “Where
did you get it?”
“You confess, then?” he said.
“I confess--I deny--_nothing_!” she said. “Give me my letter!”
She snatched it from him and pressed the hand in which it was
gripped against her throbbing heart. Trafford gazed at her with a
smoldering fire in his eyes, his teeth clinched.
“The truth now stands between us,” he said. “It was because I held
conclusive proof of your guilt that I asked you to spare us both.
I will now ask you to listen to the proposal I have come to make
to you. Ignorant of the world as you are, you will know that it
is impossible that we should live together under the same roof any
longer. It is impossible that we can breathe the same air.”
She stood perfectly motionless, her eyes meeting his steadily.
“You must know,” he went on, “that I could put you away from
me--that the law could divide us and set us free--but I do not
intend to ask for a divorce. No shadow of such shame has ever
fallen upon my people. I am desirous of averting it now. You shall
remain my wife still in the eyes of the law and the world; you
shall remain here, at Belfayre, or where you please, still bearing
my name and taking your place in the world as the Marchioness of
Trafford.”
She neither moved nor spoke, but waited for the end.
“I make only one condition,” he said. “You can guess that?”
Her lips formed the word “What?”
“That you promise to see him”--he could not speak Norman’s
name--“no more. I will deal with him--will find some means of
enforcing his separation from you.”
He waited for an answer, but she did not speak.
“I gather from your silence that you consent?” he said.
She did not contradict him by word or look.
“I have now to speak of the money you brought me. It shall be
returned to you. You refused it the night--the night of our
marriage; you can not do so now. It shall be transferred back to
you, and without the knowledge of the world. To-morrow I leave
Belfayre and England; it is not probable that I shall ever return.
For me, life is over. I shall never see your face again.” His voice
broke at the words, but he mastered it again quickly; he did not
see the shudder, the tremor, that shook her as she heard them.
“If there is any question you wish to ask me,” he went on in so
hoarse and low a voice that she could scarcely hear it, “write
to me before I go, and I will answer it. I desire to make every
arrangement that will tend to render your future an assured one.
God knows I have no desire to punish you! As I said, there has
been wrong on both sides; I have acknowledged it. You will deem
it but a hollow mockery, but I wish you happiness in the future,
forgetfulness of the past.”
His breath was labored, and the words issued from his white lips
slowly and painfully. He had never been more conscious of her
loveliness than he was at that moment; she looked like an angel of
innocence and purity as she stood in her white frock under the soft
light of the shaded lamp; and his heart ached with a passionate
love which, for the moment, almost overwhelmed his jealousy and
his sense of terrible injury and wrong.
If she had only spoken; if she had only said to him: “It is all
a mistake! I am innocent; I could not help Norman loving me; he
is nothing to me, and never has been. It is you I loved and still
love!” If she had said this with her eyes meeting his steadily, he
could not but have believed her; she would have been in his arms,
and the history of Esmeralda, of Three Star Camp, might very well
have closed here.
But she said nothing; there was scarcely room for love in her
heart, it was so full of pride and an innocent girl’s resentment
and indignation. Perhaps he expected, half hoped, that she would
speak, would plead for forgiveness; and he felt in his heart that
if she were to do so he must yield and take her back.
When he found she did not speak, he turned to the door and unlocked
it. Even then he paused.
“Have you nothing to say to me--not one word?” he said.
She shook her head.
“No, not one word,” she said, slowly, mechanically.
Then, with a swift change of manner, she raised her head still
higher, and, with a spot of red on either cheek, said:
“Yes! You believe that I have done this thing. You believe that
all this time, not only before, but since--since I have been
your--wife, I have been deceiving you, have let another man make
love to me, have made love to him--”
“How can I help believing it?” he broke in.
“You think that I am a liar and a false woman?” she said. She drew
a long breath. “Well, think so. It is easy for you to do so. You
judge me by yourself. Have you not deceived me, before and since
our marriage? You say you cared for me! You came to me and asked
me to be your wife. You knew that I knew nothing of the world, and
your sort of man. You were a lord, a gentleman. ‘A gentleman!’” She
laughed with bitter scorn. “They were better gentlemen in the Camp;
and, though you might be disposed to call them a set of vagabonds,
there’s not one of them who would stoop, who would be so mean
as to do what you did. You asked me to be your wife because you
wanted the money, not because you loved me--for you loved another
woman--you love her still!” He took a step forward, his face white,
his lips opened to utter a denial. She held up her hand, and it
shook. “No use, no use! I have known it ever since the day we were
married. I have played the spy, as you have done!” She laughed
bitterly. “I was in the anteroom, and heard you and Lady Ada--heard
every word!”
His head drooped. He stretched out his hand.
“Don’t say a word!” she said, with an impatient movement of her
head. “I have seen you together since she has been here; I have
seen her look at you, have heard her voice when she spoke to you. I
have learned a great deal since I came to this London of yours. I
know what these grand ladies are. Do you think I haven’t listened
to the stories of Lady Wyndover and other women? Do you think I
don’t know how they live, how little they care what they do, what
other women’s hearts they break, so that they can have their own
way? You think I don’t know that Lady Ada says to herself, that
though you may be my husband, you really belong to _her_?”
Trafford stood stricken dumb. What could he say? If he had
possessed the eloquence of a Cicero he would not succeed in
convincing her that his love for Lady Ada was a thing of the past,
and that he had grown to love his wife. He turned his head away
with a sigh that was like a groan. She looked at him with flashing
eyes.
“Have you nothing to say to me--not one word?” she said, repeating
his words mockingly. “No; better not; it would be of no use. We
know each other, as you think; but you are wrong. You don’t know
me; you never have known me!”
He found his voice at last.
“Esmeralda!” he said, hoarsely.
She turned away with a little weary, impatient gesture.
“I am tired!” she said, with a quiver of the lips, but with no
abatement of her pride and _hauteur_. “I do not wish to hear any
more! Surely you must have said all you have to say! I quite
understand what you want me to do. I know that you and I can not go
on living together under the same roof. I will think over what you
said, and--I will do as I please! Will you go now? I’ve told you
I’m very tired!”
A storm was raging within him. He strode across the room and caught
her by the arm.
“Come back to me, Esmeralda!” he said, almost inarticulately.
For a moment’s space, the half of a second, she wavered, then she
drew her arm from his grasp.
“You, a _gentleman_, ask me--believing me to be what you say--to
come back to you!”
She laughed discordantly. The laugh struck him like the cut of a
whip. He stood looking at her, his breath coming fast and thickly;
then, with set lips, he walked to the door. With his hand upon the
handle, he looked over his shoulder at her--a long and lingering
look in which a man’s agony was expressed. Then he went out and the
door closed upon him.