Lady Ada and Esmeralda seated themselves on a lounge within view of the room, and Esmeralda looked openly at the exquisite woman beside her. Not only openly, but with frank admiration. Lady Ada bore the inspection with languid serenity. The girl was a savage, and her gaucheries must be endured, if she, Lady Ada, were to fulfill her promise, and “help” Trafford to obtain this two millions. She saw, without looking, that Esmeralda was perfectly dressed, and that her beauty was more marked in its freshness and unconventionality even than it had been when Ada had last seen her. This made her task all the harder, and her heart swelled with bitterness as she leaned back in graceful ease, looking as if she were interested only in the crowd about her. At last she spoke.

“I have been hearing a great deal about you, Miss Chetwynde,” she said.

“Yes?” said Esmeralda; and her coolness and absence of vanity made, strangely enough, Lady Ada’s dislike more vivid.

“I am afraid that you think our curiosity extremely rude and vulgar. But you see we have, after all, so few new sensations in London, that we welcome any one with so romantic a history as yours.”

“Is it romantic?” said Esmeralda. “You mean, like a story? Well, I should have thought there wasn’t anything very curious about it. Yes, people do stare, and I’ve seen things people print about me in the paper. It seems a lot of fuss about one girl, when there are such heaps here. But if it amuses them, I don’t mind; I suppose they’ll get tired of it before long, and find some one else to make a fuss about.”

“It is not unlikely,” said Lady Ada. “And I suppose you are enjoying your new life very much? I thought you were looking very happy just now when I saw you with Lord Trafford.”

It was a piece of insolent impertinence; but Esmeralda did not detect it, disguised as it was by a smile.

“Oh, yes, I am happy!” she said. “As you say, it’s all new to me, and everybody is very kind. Everybody asks me if I am happy.”

“Does Lord Trafford?” asked Ada, as if she could not help herself.

“I don’t remember,” said Esmeralda, innocently; “but he’s very kind; I like him.”

Lady Ada’s fan moved more quickly.

“I am not surprised at that,” she said, beginning on her hateful task. “Lord Trafford is one of the nicest men in London, and is kindness itself. I am a very old friend of his; we have known each other a great many years, and are like”—she paused a moment, and caught her breath—“like brother and sister. I admire him very much.”

“Yes, he is very handsome,” said Esmeralda, as coolly as before.

Lady Ada’s lips twitched.

“And he is as good as he looks, as the books say. There is not a man in the room who can do the things men do as well as he can.”

Esmeralda thought of The Rosebud’s eulogies, and said, absently:

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yes,” said Lady Ada, “he is a conspicuous figure in London society—indeed, everywhere—one of our great men; and one day he will be greater—he will be a duke.”

She spoke as if she were speaking to a child.

“Yes, I know,” said Esmeralda, indifferently. “Every one seems to be a duke or an earl, or something with a handle to his name.”

“I suppose that you are surprised he isn’t married?” said Lady Ada, loathing herself as she spoke.

“I never thought of it,” said Esmeralda; “I suppose he hasn’t found any one he likes.”

It was an innocent thrust, but it went home.

“I suppose not,” said Ada. “Some day he will meet the lady who is fated to be his wife. She will be a very lucky person, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Esmeralda. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Lady Ada looked round the room, and smiled half bitterly.

“You are so delightfully innocent, Miss Chetwynde,” she said, “that in talking to you one feels like a serpent in the garden of Eden, and I feel almost ashamed to say what I was going to say.”

“What was that?” asked Esmeralda.

“That there is not a girl in this room who would not be half mad with delight if Lord Trafford were to ask her to be his wife.”

“But they can’t all be in love with him!” said Esmeralda, after a moment’s consideration of this startling assertion.

Lady Ada leaned back wearily. Her task was harder than she had thought it would be—seemed well-nigh hopeless.

“Perhaps not,” she said; “but they are one and all in love with his title—with his position. It is a great thing to be the Duchess of Belfayre.”

“Is it?” said Esmeralda. “I dare say it is, if you say so. I don’t know anything about it; but I dare say I shall learn in time.”

Lady Ada laughed with barely concealed impatience and scorn.

“I am so glad we have met, Miss Chetwynde,” she said; “for in addition to the gratitude which I owe you, I feel that we shall be great friends—that is, if you care for my friendship.”

“Oh, yes,” said Esmeralda, “it is very kind of you.”

“You must come and see me,” said Lady Ada. “Ask Lady Wyndover to bring you as soon as she can; and you must tell me all—all your difficulties. Things must seem so strange to you, just at first, and perhaps I can help you.”

As she spoke, Trafford came up with Lady Wyndover on his arm.

“Will you hold my bouquet a moment, Lord Trafford?” said Lady Ada; “I have torn my dress.”

As they drew a little apart, and she bent down to examine her train, she said in a low voice:

“You see I am keeping my promise.”

“I see. I am sorry. Let it alone,” he said.

“She is a block of wood—a stone!” she murmured. “You will have hard work to secure her. You will never do it, meeting her only in places like this. Take them for a drive to-morrow. Get her alone with you.”

He frowned darkly.

“Why do you trouble?” he said, almost harshly. “It is—”

“Despicable,” she filled in. “I know it. Do you think I don’t feel it—that I don’t know that I am earning your contempt? That’s a woman’s portion when she sacrifices herself for the man she— You would have thought more highly of me if I had made a scene—loaded you with reproaches, and cut you for the rest of my life. Most women would have acted thus; but it is my ill-fortune to care for you, not wisely, but too well.”

“Let it alone,” he said again. “You mean well, and I am not ungrateful; but you make my task harder instead of easier. You make me feel ashamed. Will you dance with me?”

“If you like,” she said, resignedly.

They had often danced together, and they moved as one. Esmeralda watched them with admiration that was not untinged by faint envy. Every now and then Trafford felt Ada’s hand grip his spasmodically, and presently she drooped upon him heavily.

“That will do,” she said, with a long sigh; “I am tired. Take me to Lady Grange; I want to go home.”

Trafford saw them to their carriage, and then returned to the ball-room; but he could not have got near Esmeralda again if he had desired to do so, for when she was not dancing she was surrounded by men who were more eager to pay their court to her than the Marquis of Trafford was. She saw him from a distance before he left, and wondered whether he would come to her again, and she was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment that he did not do so. He was the handsomest—the most distinguished man in the room, in a way. And Esmeralda was—just a girl.

Lady Wyndover, who had not been unobservant, and who was thrilling with satisfaction at Trafford’s attention to her ward, talked of him nearly all the way home; but Esmeralda was very silent, and only answered in monosyllables; but she thought of him a great deal that night.

The following afternoon she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, Lady Wyndover having gone out, when Lord Trafford was announced. He came in, looking rather grave and very aristocratic in his long frock coat. Esmeralda greeted him with her usual frankness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Lady Wyndover is out; she has gone to the milliner’s. I am rather tired of buying hats and bonnets, and so I stayed at home. Will you have some tea—I was just going to ring for it—or don’t you take tea?”

Trafford said he would take some tea, and it was brought in. He seated himself in a lounge chair, and watched her as she poured out the tea. She was not in the least shy, not in the least embarrassed, and she asked him if he took sugar, as if she had known him all her life. He noticed that she looked particularly young and girlish in her plain afternoon dress, and that her hands, which he saw for the first time without their gloves, were, though brown, small and shapely. He noticed, too, how long and dark her lashes were, and that the beauty which he had remarked in the ball-room did not wane in the daylight; indeed, she looked even more charming. A book was lying on the couch beside her, and he took it up. It was a book of adventure, plentifully illustrated.

“Are you fond of reading?” he asked.

She hesitated a moment.

“I don’t know; it all depends upon the book. I haven’t read much, for there weren’t many books at Three Star, and I haven’t had time since I have been in London; and most of the books I see here are so silly. I like that one.”

She began to tell him what it was about, and for a moment lost herself in her description. Once or twice she laughed, and Trafford thought her laugh was a very pleasant and musical one.

“It’s full of adventure,” she said, “and all sorts of terrible things happen to the man—enough to kill ten men out of a book—but he gets through them all in a most wonderful manner. And he’s always saving some girl, and shooting some man; but the man who wrote it doesn’t seem to know the difference between a rifle and an ordinary gun—he ought to have lived in Three Star—but it isn’t bad.”

“You are fond of adventure?” he said. “You like riding and driving?”

“Oh, yes,” she said; “and so do you, don’t you?”

He looked rather surprised at her knowledge of his tastes.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

She was on the point of telling him about Lord Norman Bruce; but something kept her silent, and for the first time since he had known her she looked embarrassed; then her woman’s wit came to her aid.

“Most men do, don’t they?” she said.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he assented, wondering at her momentary hesitation and confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve not had much of either since you’ve been in London. Do you think Lady Wyndover would care for a drive into the country? If so, I will bring a mail phaeton round some afternoon.”

“I should think she would like it, if it were warm, and she could get some tea. I think Lady Wyndover would die if she didn’t get some tea in the afternoon. I’ll tell her when she comes in.”

“And you, of course?” said Trafford.

She opened her eyes upon him, and they glowed with girlish pleasure.

“Me?” she said. “Oh! that’s very kind of you. I should like it awfully. I only go for a drive in the carriage, and it’s hot and stuffy, and makes me feel as if I couldn’t breathe.”

“You’ll be able to breathe in the phaeton,” he said, with a smile. “Shall we say to-morrow, if we can induce Lady Wyndover to go?”

“Yes, to-morrow!” she said, eagerly. “And we shall go into the real country, away from all these houses?”

“Into the real country,” he said. “And we need not go very far. But I can’t promise you anything like Australia.”

“Ah, no!” she said, with a little pensive look in her eyes; “there is nothing like that.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, invitingly; and he drew her out as an experienced man of the world can so easily do when he is dealing with an unsophisticated girl. But, though Esmeralda talked of the gold digging, the wild camps, the broad valleys, the lofty mountains, the intense heat—in short, the place that had been home to her—she mentioned no names; only alluded to Varley Howard as her guardian, and said absolutely nothing of Norman Druce.

Trafford leaned back and listened to her, and watched the play of her expressive countenance with a strange mixture of sensations. Her evident affection for her old home, her natural eloquence—for there was eloquence in her description—charmed him, and only now and again was he repelled by some word or phrase which, though they were softened by the musical voice and innocence of the speaker, reminded him that she was a waif from the wilds. His manner toward her was gravely deferential and gentle, and that, on its side, had a charm for Esmeralda. Without knowing it she began to understand why Norman Druce had been so enthusiastic in his laudations of this cousin of his.

Lady Wyndover, coming in suddenly, found the two looking over a volume of prints, and laughing together quite unreservedly; and her ladyship heartily wished that she had remained out another half hour. Trafford grew grave again at her entrance, and repeated his invitation for the drive in more formal terms.

Lady Wyndover accepted at once, though the mere prospect of driving in an open carriage filled her with horror.

“We shall be delighted, dear Lord Trafford,” she said. “And I’m sure you couldn’t have given this girl a greater treat. She is always wailing and moaning for what she calls the open air.” She laid her hand on Esmeralda’s head as she spoke, and Trafford noticed the red-gold hair contrasted with Lady Wyndover’s white paw. Perhaps her ladyship intended him to notice it.

“You and Lord Trafford appear to be excellent friends, my dear,” she said, when he had gone.

“Oh, yes,” said Esmeralda, as she took up her book. “He is very pleasant and agreeable.” And, though Lady Wyndover tried to coax something more out of her, she failed.

Esmeralda seemed absorbed in her book, and to have quite forgotten Lord Trafford as soon as he departed.

They met again that night at a reception, and Trafford spent some time talking with her. It is scarcely necessary to say that they were watched, and a whisper went round that the Marquis of Trafford was for the first time “serious,” and that he had marked the Golden Savage for his own.

The following afternoon, at the hour appointed, he drove the mail phaeton up to the door, and Esmeralda, who had been quite ready five minutes before the time, clapped her hands, and uttered an exclamation of delight as she saw the pair of splendid horses.

“I don’t know whether you mind not having a groom,” said Trafford, as she and Lady Wyndover came out; “but mine has hurt his leg, and I hate having a strange man.”

Lady Wyndover said she didn’t mind in the least, and she insisted on his putting her in the back seat. “I’d rather Esmeralda rode in front,” she said. “If I can see the horses I am always under the impression they are going to bolt; besides, if there’s any wind, you’ll shelter me.”

Esmeralda climbed up to the front seat without any assistance from Trafford, and they drove off. He glanced at her. She wore a neat little felt hat and a sealskin jacket, and she looked, even to his critical eyes, perfectly dressed and workman-like.

“I am going to take you to a place called Shirley,” he said. “It is wonderfully wild, and there will be a splendid view, if it isn’t misty.”

“All right,” said Esmeralda. “I shall like that. But I don’t care where we go. Those are good horses!” They drove on, chatting together, Trafford turning now and again to exchange a word with Lady Wyndover, till they had got on the Surrey road; and up to then, all went merry as a marriage-bell; but suddenly the sky grew overcast, and the day grew colder, and Lady Wyndover drew her furs about her, and shuddered.

Trafford, looking round suddenly, saw her misery, and said, penitently:

“I’m afraid you are getting cold, Lady Wyndover!”

“Oh, no!” she said, with a smile that would have done credit to a martyr. “Is—is the place we are going to much further?”

“Well, it is a little further,” he said. “Shall we turn back?”

Lady Wyndover would not hear of this, and Trafford, out of sheer pity for her, drew up at the inn at West Wickham.

“We’ll get some tea here,” he said. They went into the inn, and he ordered some tea. There was, fortunately, a fire in the room, and Lady Wyndover thawed over her beloved beverage; but Esmeralda looked from the window with an air of disappointment.

“I don’t think much of this for a view,” she said.

“Oh! Shirley is a little further on,” said Trafford. Lady Wyndover looked up from the fire at which she was toasting her toes.

“Why shouldn’t you two go on there?” she said, presently. “Esmeralda will never be satisfied unless she goes up to the top of this dreadful mountain. I shall be quite happy here until you come back, and nothing will induce me to go.”

Trafford looked doubtful, and hesitated, but he happened to glance at Esmeralda’s face, and it decided him. He went out and ordered the horses, and they started. As they climbed the hill, Esmeralda drew a long breath.

“I believe this is the first time I’ve breathed since I’ve been in London,” she said. “Oh! how beautiful it is! Look at those tall firs. Why, one might be a hundred miles from London. What’s that great, shining place on the hill behind us?”

“That’s the Crystal Palace,” he said. “Fancy your not knowing that!”

“I don’t know anything,” she said, with a laugh. They reached the summit. “Those are good horses of yours,” she said, again; “they seem as fresh as when they started.”

“Would you like to drive?” he asked, catching a tone of eagerness in her voice.

“May I?” she said.

He changed places with her, and she took the reins and the whip in true coachman-like fashion; and she laughed, and her eyes flashed, and her lips parted, as she drove the splendid bays along the top of the hill; and Trafford looked at her, and the sense of her beauty and her youth smote him for the first time in all its fullness.

She seemed quite unconscious of his presence—certainly quite unconscious of his gaze—as she sat, straight as an arrow, holding the high-spirited horses in complete control. Presently it began to rain. She did not notice it; but he leaned over to the back of the phaeton, and fished up a capacious ulster of Irish frieze.

“Put this on,” he said.

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right!”

“What would Lady Wyndover say if I took you back soaking wet? Pull up for a moment, and stand up.”

She stood up. He spoke a word to the horses, and brought them to a standstill, and put the ulster round her; but, capacious as it was, he found some difficulty in coaxing it over the sealskin jacket. He was very close to her; his arm, so to speak, went round her. He could feel her breath upon his cheek.

It has been said more than once that Esmeralda was one of the loveliest daughters of Eve; Trafford was a son of Adam. The blood surged tumultuously in his veins, his arms tightened round her, and he whispered her name.

Esmeralda, all unconscious of the emotion that was making his heart beat fiercely, was looking at the horses—they were under her care; but the sudden pressure of his arm, the inaudible whisper, startled her into consciousness to his close proximity. She turned her eyes upon him, and met his gaze, and wonder, surprise, dawned slowly into them.

“Miss Chetwynde—Esmeralda!” he said. “Forgive me!”

Esmeralda put him gently away from her, and taking up the reins, seated herself, and waited; for, innocent as she was, she felt that he was going to say something more.