Esmeralda’s hand closed tightly, and she raised her head and looked at Lady Ada’s pale face for an instant, then lowered her eyes.

“I have just been down to see if they are ready,” she said.[175] “The carriage is at the door, and Lord Trafford is waiting— What is the matter?” she broke off, as she saw Esmeralda’s face.

“Nothing,” said Lady Wyndover, with a feminine little frown at her. “Esmeralda felt rather faint—that is all. It has passed over now, and she is quite ready. Are you not, dearest?”

“Quite,” said Esmeralda, rising.

With intense thankfulness, she found that she could stand quite steadily.

“You will be able to rest during the journey,” said Lady Wyndover. “I am so glad that I arranged you should drive all the way, and not bother with trains! I hope you will find everything nice, and—and— Oh, dear! I have got to say good-bye now, and I’m afraid I’m going to break down, too!” and the little woman, whose heart was of the truest metal, notwithstanding the gilt and tinsel of her exterior, put her arms round Esmeralda and hugged her just as any washer-woman might have hugged her newly married and just-departing daughter.

Esmeralda trembled, and gripped the small, tightly corseted figure almost painfully. She could not speak for the lump that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. She kissed the painted and powdered face twice, thrice, and Lady Wyndover did not shrink or avoid the art-destroying kiss.

“Good-bye, dear! Oh, I didn’t think I should feel it like this! But no one can help loving you, dear; no one, and”—with a sob—“I’ve grown as fond of you as if you were my own. Don’t—don’t forget me in—in your happiness, Esmeralda. It will seem awfully lonely and desolate without you! Oh, what a selfish little beast I am! Barker, have you got the marchioness’s dressing-bag and the jewel-case? Don’t let them out of your hand. Good-bye, dearest, dearest! You must go!”

They followed her down the stairs. The rest of the guests had come into the hall, and were laughing and talking. There was a great deal of excitement among the men and the younger women, for, though persons of their class do not take too much champagne, they take enough.

Lord Ffoulkes had a fairy-like slipper in one hand and a bag of rice in the other. There was a quantity of bags of rice altogether.

At sight of the bride they broke into a kind of subdued cheer. Esmeralda, looking down, saw them as through a mist, a mist out of which grew prominently the tall, commanding[176] figure of Trafford. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. As she came, his grave face lighted up with a smile of welcome.

Her eyes met his for a moment, then looked away.

The duke stood near the door, leaning on his stick.

“God bless and keep you, my child!” he said, tremulously, as he kissed her. “Trafford, take care of my daughter!”

For a moment Esmeralda’s eyes grew moist, then they grew dry and hot again. Trafford led her to the carriage. The guests thronged behind, slippers and rice were thrown, the horses pranced, one, struck by one of Ffoulkes’ slippers, reared; there was a plunge, a cry of “Stand back; out of the way there!” addressed by the coachman to the crowd, and the Marquis and Marchioness of Trafford had started upon their honey-moon.

“And they were married and lived happy ever afterward!” murmured Lord Selvaine, as he watched the carriage dash down the square.

Trafford waved his hand while the house was still in sight, then carefully and gently brushed the rice from Esmeralda’s clothes.

“It is fortunate that it is not the fashion to throw brickbats after the newly married,” he said.

Esmeralda did not respond. She leaned back in her corner—as far from him as possible—and looked straight before her. She was still pale, and there was a vacant, absent look in her eyes. Lady Ada’s—Trafford’s—words were still ringing in her ears like a knell. She was asking herself what she should do. At one moment she felt as if she must cry and sob aloud, or feel her heart break; but she fought against her tears.

Esmeralda, the pride of Three Star Camp, had not lost all the spirit of which “the boys” had always been so proud; and that spirit was slowly rising within her now.

She was only a girl—just a girl—as Lady Wyndover had said—but she was enough of a woman to feel that she had been cruelly wronged and deceived. She had been bought and sold. The man beside her—her husband—this great nobleman had led her to believe that he loved her, but had really married her for her money!

In Three Star, conduct of the kind of which he had been guilty would have been promptly punished with the rope or the bullet. The blood burned in her veins as she thought of it, as she realized that she was tied and bound, a prisoner and helpless in his power. And yet, while the passion of indignation[177] and resentment throbbed through her, there was an aching sense of loss in every nerve that was almost greater than her anger and humiliation.

She had loved him—loved him! Her heart had thrilled whenever he came near her. She had loved him so dearly, so truly, that she would have laid down her life for him. Why, if he had come to her and told her that it was her money and not herself he wanted, she would have given him every penny and gone back to Three Star and her old poverty without a murmur! Oh, why could he not have done so!

And now what was she to do? What—what?

“Are you very tired?” he asked after a time. He too had been thinking, and Ada’s passionate sorrow and desperate appeal were still ringing in his ears. Then he determined to put all thought of her away from him—and forever. All his life for the future should be devoted to this girl-wife of his, this beautiful, innocent girl who loved him and who had trusted herself to him. His past was over and buried, and the future looked bright, notwithstanding Ada, for he was wise enough to know that no man could live with such a one as Esmeralda without coming to love her. “Are you very tired? I am afraid that it has been an extremely trying day,” he said; and, almost unconsciously, his tone was tender and lover-like.

Esmeralda started from her miserable reverie.

“Yes, I am tired,” she said. He was struck by the weariness, the “deadness” in her voice, and his voice was still more tender as he said:

“I was afraid you would be. Close your eyes and try to sleep for a little while; if you do not sleep you will get some rest that way. I will pull down the blind on your side. Does your head ache? There is some eau de Cologne in my dressing-bag.”

He pulled down the blind, and as he did so he touched her hand lovingly. She drew her hand away slowly, stealthily, and closed her eyes.

“I will try and sleep,” she said. “No, do not trouble about the eau de Cologne.”

He drew the dressing-bag under her feet for a foot-stool, and arranged the other blind so that she should get all the air there was and yet be screened from the sunlight; then he leaned back, and, that she might not think he was watching her, got a magazine.

The horses went fast, London was soon left behind, and the green lanes of Surrey reached. With every mile he felt as if[178] he were leaving his past—Ada—behind him, and with every mile a sense of relief was increasing. Now and again he glanced at Esmeralda. She was quite motionless and breathing regularly, and he thought of the Sleeping Beauty. A childish fancy for so grave and world-worn a man, but a sweet one. He had been the prince to call that sleeping innocent soul of hers into life and love. The thought sent the blood coursing through his veins, and filled him with a new-born sense of joy. He thought of her, not her money; of the girl, not the millionairess, whom he had married to save the great house of which he would some day be the head. He had vowed to love and cherish her; why—why should he not love her? The magazine, stored with delightful stories and clever illustrations, remained unread.

Esmeralda was not asleep, but she kept her eyes closed and remained motionless until the carriage slowed off, and passing a tiny lodge, drove up a narrow but well-kept drive; then she opened her eyes. She was pale still, but the rest had soothed her nerves, and the terrible tension was relaxed.

“We have arrived,” Trafford said. “Are you rested, dearest?”

She started at the endearing term.

“Yes, yes,” she said in a subdued voice. “How long it has been!”

“Yes, I’m afraid it has been too long, too tiring for you,” he said. “Perhaps, after all, we ought to have gone by train.”

The carriage drew up at the house, and the footman opened the door. Barker, who had come by train, was on the steps. Esmeralda saw a pretty cottage, with brown beams projecting through............