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[230] 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[231] 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?”

[232]

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[233] 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............