The next day Trafford rigged up an apology for a tent under that
tree, and dwelt there while the doctor was carrying on the grim
fight with Death in the hut.
Sometimes Trafford stole in and gazed at the flushed face and
too brilliant eyes, and listened to the wild, delirious stream
that issued from the parched lips. His name was ever on those
lips--sometimes breathed with a passionate tenderness, sometimes
uttered imploringly, at others thrilling with womanly indignation;
and every time she spoke his name her voice went to Trafford’s
heart like a distinct stab.
He was bound up in her, heart and soul; he forgot everything but
this girl, whom he loved with a love which would turn his life to a
hell or a heaven. He forgot that he was the Duke of Belfayre, and
no more thought of writing home than he thought of leaving her.
Everything in the world might go, if she would only live and give
him back her love.
A deep anxiety sat upon Three Star. Men went about with grave faces
and preoccupied manner, and the gayety of the Eldorado saloon was
crushed out by the weight of suspense. Men spoke in hushed voices,
the tinkling piano was silent. No one had even the heart to fight.
Varley and Norman and several of the miners rode frequently to
the hut to make inquiries, and hung around on tiptoe, and with
suppressed voices. Presents innumerable were sent from the camp;
everything that Esmeralda could be supposed to fancy--the most
grotesque articles--arrived as tokens of Three Star’s love.
At the approach of visitors from the camp, Trafford invariably
disappeared; he could not endure to meet any one--least of all,
Varley and Norman. He had a reckoning to make with both, but he
postponed it. His anger against Norman had become dwarfed and
dulled by the vastness of his anxiety for Esmeralda. There was
no room in his heart for rage or jealousy, or any feeling but a
consuming love.
One evening, about a week later, he was leaning against a tree
beside his tent, when he saw the doctor coming from the hut.
Something in his gait, in the poise of his head, sent the blood
to Trafford’s face. He came forward eagerly, with the unspoken
question in his eyes.
The doctor nodded, with a little triumphant smile about his big,
strong mouth.
“Yes,” he said; “she’s better--”
Trafford staggered slightly and drew himself up and set his teeth
hard; good tidings are sometimes as difficult to bear as bad
tidings.
--“She is conscious, and the crisis is past. It’s been a terrible
struggle, and if she hadn’t had her youth and a devil of a strong
constitution, I should have lost this game.”
Trafford held out his hand; it trembled like a leaf; he tried to
force a smile.
“I won’t try to thank you, doctor,” he said.
“That’s all right,” said the doctor. “Besides, we aren’t out of the
wood yet. She’s fearfully weak, and there might be trouble still.”
“May I see her?” asked Trafford in a low voice.
“No,” said the doctor, bluntly. “You certainly may not; that would
about finish it. I came out to tell you so, and to advise you to go
away for a night. Take a ride, and try to get rid of that scared
face of yours. You still look too much like a ghost to present
yourself at a sick-bed. Why not go down to the camp and see the
boys? You might go to the Eldorado and get a drink or two; in fact,
I should advise you to get several drinks and make a night of it;
you’ll be all the better for it. Your mind’s been dwelling on one
thing; you’ve been harping on one string too long. Go down and have
a spree, join in a fight, if you like; anyway, get rid of that
undertaker expression; a black eye would be better than that.”
Trafford smiled.
“I will go down to the camp,” he said, almost humbly.
He followed the doctor to the door of the hut and stood and
listened in the hope that he might hear the beloved voice, but all
was still, and he went back and mounted his horse and rode toward
Three Star. The relief from the terrible suspense made him feel
almost light-headed, and he rode along in a kind of dream, looking
about him as if earth and sky were something new to him. Every now
and then he breathed her name. As he approached the camp, he saw
Varley just preparing to mount his horse; he was going to ride to
the hut. At sight of Trafford, he stopped and stood, with one arm
resting on the saddle, awaiting him. Trafford rode up, dismounted,
and raised his hat; Varley raised his, his dark eyes fixed sternly
on Trafford’s face.
“I have brought good news,” said Trafford. “The crisis is past; she
is better.”
A flush rose to Varley’s face and he turned his head aside to hide
his emotion; then he faced Trafford again.
“What do you mean to do, my lord?” he asked, sternly.
Trafford was silent, and Varley went on, speaking slowly, and as if
he had already prepared his words:
“I have a right to ask. I am her guardian. You have lost the right
which belonged to her husband; you have brought her nothing but
misery. Do you mean to continue to make her unhappy? The sight of
you must be almost as intolerable to her as it is to me. She fled
from you to me, to her old home. Do you mean to leave her quietly,
or not?”
“She shall decide,” said Trafford, gravely, almost solemnly. “I
acknowledge your right to ask me such a question. Not only because
you have been a father to her, but because I have brought so much
trouble upon you.”
“Yes,” said Varley in a broken voice, “not satisfied with breaking
her heart, you were the cause of my very nearly killing the being I
love better than my life.”
Trafford bowed his head.
“I know it,” he said. “Do you think I shall ever forget it? That is
why I have come to you now to tell you that I place myself in her
hands. I shall claim no right to her; I shall advance no plea; I
shall just leave my fate to her.”
“She can only decide one way,” said Varley. “She can have no love
for the man who meanly deceived and betrayed her.”
His stern words produced such an effect upon Trafford, that even
Varley could have found it in his heart to pity him.
“Do you know the whole story?” asked Trafford, when he could speak.
“Has Norman told you?”
“No,” said Varley; “he has told me nothing. I wish to hear nothing.”
“You must hear it,” said Trafford.
Varley pointed to the hut near which they were standing, and
Trafford followed him in. The two men stood facing each other,
Trafford with his back to the door.
“It is right that you should hear the truth. You may think worse of
me than you do already. It is of little consequence, though. Mr.
Howard, I value your good opinion more than you can imagine and can
believe. You accuse me of marrying Esmeralda for her money.” His
face flushed as if with shame. “I plead guilty. I and mine were
in terrible straits; I was tempted, and I fell. As you have said,
I married Esmeralda for the wealth which she possessed, the money
which could save my house from ruin.”
Varley rolled a cigarette, his pale face set with a kind of
impatient contempt.
“And you are what is called a nobleman!” he said.
“I deserve that,” said Trafford, quietly. “But there is nothing
that you can say which can be more bitter than that which I have
already said to myself.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Varley, after a moment.
“On our wedding-day,” continued Trafford, speaking very slowly,
and as if he were communing with himself, rather than addressing
Varley, “I made a discovery. I discovered that I loved her--loved
her as passionately and truly as any man ever loved since the world
began.”
Varley raised his eyes for a moment and carefully lighted his
cigarette.
“I would have married her if she had been penniless. I looked
forward to laying a life of devotion at her feet. There had been
one woman”--he hesitated a scarcely perceptible second--“whom I
would have put in Esmeralda’s place--I tell you this because I have
resolved to conceal nothing from you--but my love for Esmeralda had
erased, destroyed, any feeling I may have had for any other woman.
I loved her with all my heart. But it was too late!” He sunk on
to the table and continued, with his head averted from Varley’s
piercing eyes: “She had discovered, by a conversation which she had
overheard, that I had married her for her money. Her pure soul rose
in revolt. She refused to believe that I had grown to love her. My
punishment began; we virtually parted on our wedding-day.”
Varley looked at him, but said nothing.
“It was a punishment more terrible than you can imagine. We were
husband and wife in name only, living under the same roof as
strangers--worse than strangers. We went to Belfayre, and there
Norman Druce was awaiting us. He and Esmeralda had met here. I knew
nothing of it, did not know that he loved her, and that he had ever
asked her to be his wife; though I might have suspected something
from the confusion which they displayed when I took him to her on
my wedding-morning.”
Varley flung his cigarette away and turned with flashing eyes.
“You accuse Esmeralda--” he began.
“Hear me out!” said Trafford. “Norman and Esmeralda were with us
at Belfayre. She and I were separated; he loved her still; it was
only natural that he, they, should be tempted. I see, now, how much
excuse there was for her--yes, and for him.”
As he spoke, a shadow darkened the door-way, and a man stood
in the entrance. It was Norman. He stopped at sight of the two
men, and would have turned away, but Varley, with a gesture which
Trafford, sitting with bowed head, did not see, signed to Norman to
remain. Trafford sighed heavily.
“They were together, spent hours together. It was only natural
that she should turn to him, the man who had loved her and still
loved her, from the husband who she believed cared nothing for
her. One night I saw them together in the conservatory. They were
agitated--I could hear nothing--but I saw him kiss her.” He wiped
the sweat from his face and seemed unable to proceed for a moment.
“I went to her that night and told her all I had seen, charged her.
She denied nothing. Next morning she had left me. He, too, had gone
without leaving a word behind him. They had flown together. My
father died that night; I could not follow her--I was like a man
distraught; I think I was indeed mad for a time. I followed them
here later on, and here, as you know, I found them.”
Varley looked straight before him. For the first time he saw the
terrible business from Trafford’s point of view. It looked as if
indeed Esmeralda had been guilty; and yet he could not believe it.
He glanced at Norman with a stern, fierce inquiry, and saw on his
face a strange expression. It did not look in Varley’s eyes like
guilt.
“I have told you all,” said Trafford. “And now I answer your
question as to what I intend to do. As I have said, Esmeralda shall
decide.”
“Esmeralda?” said Varley.
“Yes,” said Trafford, looking straight before him. “It shall rest
entirely with her. The moment she is strong enough to see me, to
hear me, I shall go to her and say, ‘Esmeralda, I love you. You
shall choose between me and Norman. If you return to me, I swear
that never by word or look will I remind you of what has passed.
For that I am as answerable as you. It shall be buried, never to
rise between us again. Choose between me and him. If your choice
falls upon him, I will submit. You shall marry him; I will do all
I can to help you to regain the happiness of which I robbed you; I
will leave you in peace with the man you love.’”
Varley looked at him fixedly.
“You will do this?” he said, a strong man’s reluctant admiration
showing in his eyes.
“I will,” said Trafford, solemnly.
Norman stepped into the hut, his face lined with emotion, too
agitated to speak for a moment.
Trafford started to his feet, his face growing red, his lips
compressed tightly. Norman looked him straight in the eyes.
“Trafford!” he exclaimed.
“You have overheard?” said Trafford in a constrained voice. “Good!
I have but one word to add to you. You, too, will abide by her
decision. If she should choose me, then you will go your way, and
leave us in peace. You will refuse at your peril.”
Norman still looked at him steadily, and, to Varley’s surprise, did
not wince or flinch.
“My God! how blind you have been!” he said. “How blind you are!
Esmeralda choose between me and you? Why--why-- Oh, I can’t get it
out fast enough! I don’t know where to begin. Why, man, she has
loved you all the time! She loves you still. There was never a
woman in the world loved a man as Esmeralda loves you”--both men
stared at him; he was hot with eagerness and indignation--“and
always has loved you. Why, any one could see it--and they had
only to look in her eyes when you came near her. The whole thing
is a hideous mistake. Wait! You wait, and hear me, as I’ve heard
you--and I’ve had hard work not to burst in or howl aloud. What
you said is true enough as far as a certain point. I _did_ love
Esmeralda. I own it; I’m proud of it! I did ask her to be my
wife, but she refused; and quite right, for there was a better
man--_you_--waiting for her. I don’t know how you heard that I
proposed to her.”
“Your letter to her was given to me,” said Trafford, almost
inaudibly.
“Oh! When I came to England I was in love with her still. I own it;
I’m proud of it! Every man ought to fall in love with Esmeralda.
But when I found that she was to be your wife, I crushed it out.
Do you think I’m a cur, Trafford? What have I ever done that you
should think I would play the scoundrel--and to _you_, of all men
in the world?” Trafford looked at him, and began to breathe hard.
“I crushed it out. And then I went down to Belfayre; and--and
there was Lilias; and--yes, Lilias crept into the vacant place
in my heart, and taught me not to think of Esmeralda, excepting
as a sister and the wife of my best friend. And she is the best
sister, the sweetest and truest, that a man ever had! She soon
found out that I loved Lilias, and set about helping me.” He
paused for want of breath. Trafford’s hand gripped the edge of
the table. “That night, in the conservatory, we were talking of
Lilias, and Esmeralda was promising to plead for me. I was full of
gratitude--carried away, if you like--and I kissed her, as you saw.
She took the kiss merely for Lilias’s sake.”
Trafford rose, then sunk down again.
“The next morning your man brought a telegram. My mother was ill; I
had to start at once. You say I left no word behind me--”
Trafford’s lips moved.
“It’s not true,” said Norman, almost savagely. “Your man knew, and
I told”--he hesitated a moment, as if confused and bewildered by a
sudden thought that had struck him--“told some one else. I had no
idea that there was anything wrong, that Esmeralda had gone, until
I saw Lady Wyndover. Then I went straight to town in search of
you. I didn’t want to seek Esmeralda; I knew where _she’d_ gone; I
knew she’d come here. I played hide-and-seek with you for nearly a
day. I booked a berth for you, got everything ready, and when you
didn’t turn up, I went on board the vessel myself, and came after
Esmeralda to explain--to one of you, at any rate, what a hideous
mistake and bungle the whole miserable business was. Choose between
you and me!” He panted for breath, and laughed outright. “Why, man,
she chose long ago! There’s no other man in the world but you, and
the whole of the masculine gender might go hang for her, so long as
she had you!”
He dropped into a chair, and mopped his red and streaming face; it
was hot work.
Trafford rose trembling, looking from one to the other like a
man waking from a ghastly nightmare, and Varley watched him with
pitying and sympathizing eyes; for as he realized all that Trafford
had suffered, he could find it possible to forgive him.
“Norman!” said Trafford, hoarsely. “What am I to say? I can only
ask you to forgive me. It is _I_ who have wronged _you_! I have
been a fool, a mad fool--worse than a fool! I am not fit to stand
in the presence of the friend I have wronged!”
He extended his hand with profound humility.
Norman sprung to his feet, with tears in his eyes, grasped the hand
and wrung it, and kept on wringing it in a manner that would have
been ludicrous but for the tragedy of the situation.
“Dear old Trafford!” he murmured, brokenly. “But she’s better! I
know that from what you’ve said! And it will all come right!”
Trafford’s lips quivered.
“God grant it!” he said. “She--she may not forgive me. Her love may
have died.”
Norman laughed broken and incredulously.
“You wait and see!” he said.
“I must go to her at once,” said Trafford, feverishly.
“One moment,” said Varley, gravely, and with something like his old
languid tone. “I, too, should like to shake hands with you, if you
will permit me. It strikes me you’ve not been the only fool in this
business. And that there’s a villain, too.”
They looked at him inquiringly.
Varley sat on the edge of the table, with his hands thrust in his
pockets, looking like the old Varley, as he said:
“Will you allow me to ask you a question or two, my lord?”
Trafford assented mutely.
“I’m rather curious to fit in a little piece of this puzzle which
seems to me to be missing just at present, and which the thing
wants to make it a complete map of the whole business. You’ve seen
those children’s puzzles, I dare say, my lord?”
The two men waited with intense gravity.
“I should like to ask you, duke, who gave you that letter of
Norman’s?”
Trafford was silent for a moment.
“I can not refuse to answer you,” he said. “It was a lady--Lady Ada
Lancing.”
Varley’s face was quite impassive, and he swung one leg in a
languid, meditative way.
“Thanks. May I ask you, Lord Druce, who the ‘some one’ was who you
told about that telegram which caused you to leave Belfayre so
suddenly?”
Norman colored and bit his lip, and glanced at Trafford uneasily. A
cloud was gathering on Trafford’s face.
“Answer,” he said, curtly.
“It was--Lady Ada,” said Norman in a low voice.
“Thanks,” drawled Varley. “And she did not tell you, duke, or any
one, apparently, of the cause of Lord Druce’s sudden departure?”
Trafford’s silence was a sufficient answer.
“One more question,” said Varley. “A rather delicate one, I’m
afraid. You said that there was another lady whom you might have
made your wife; will you think me unduly inquisitive if I ask you
to tell me her name?”
Trafford turned his face away. It was lined by a deep emotion.
“Lady Ada Lancing,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Ah!” remarked Varley in the slowest of drawls. “We have a great
deal to thank Lady Ada Lancing for. We owe her a great debt. It’s a
pity she isn’t a man or--we could pay her!”
“My God! Ada! Is it possible?” exclaimed Norman, under his breath.
“My dear young friend, anything is possible to a woman who loves
another woman’s husband, and thinks she sees a chance of robbing
her of him.” Then, after a moment, as the two men stood with
downcast eyes, each filled with shame for this woman’s sake, he
laid his hand upon Trafford’s shoulder. “This seems a suitable time
for a drink,” he said.
Trafford started.
“I must go back at once!” he said, taking a step toward the door,
but Varley’s hand had gripped him firmly.
“After a drink,” he said.
Trafford allowed himself to be led to the Eldorado, and Varley
administered the doctor’s prescription--and liberally.
But within the hour Trafford was riding to the hut on the hills as
if he were racing for life. Whereas he was only racing for love!