The next day Trafford proposed a ride, and the mare Mr. Carter had chosen was brought round for Esmeralda. She was a splendid creature, and Esmeralda uttered an exclamation of delight at the sight of her. Trafford examined the saddle and bit—though it was quite unnecessary—and put Esmeralda up. Notwithstanding her height, she was as light as a feather, and laughed at his assistance.

“I can swing into the saddle by myself,” she said, simply. “I had to, for there was often no one to help me at Three Star, and when I was out riding I had to get off and on by myself. Oh, how lovely to be riding again!”

Trafford looked at her as he rode by her side. Her habit fitted her like a skin, she seemed as lithe and graceful as a withy wand, and sat her horse as if she and the animal were one. The mare was high-spirited and fresh, and full of mischief, but Esmeralda managed it with perfect ease and coolness, and Trafford, though he was ready to help her in an instant, saw that she did not need any assistance.

Esmeralda was so absorbed in the mare, that for awhile she seemed to have forgotten her companion, and Trafford did not break in upon her enjoyment with speech. Presently, as they rode across the park, they came to a rough, wooden fence.

“The gate is lower down,” he said; but Esmeralda laughed, and with a cool “Can she jump?” put the mare at the fence.

Trafford held his breath, for though the horse was a good one, he did not know whether it would clear the posts or refuse, and, perhaps, throw its rider; but the mare, urged by a touch of the whip, rose freely, and went over like a bird.

Esmeralda pulled up on the other side and waited for him, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with enjoyment. He paused for a moment to look at her, almost startled by her beauty, then he popped over steadily to her side.

“That was well done!” he said. “You would hold your own in the hunting-field, Esmeralda.”

“Do you hunt in England?” she said. “I haven’t seen any big game—excepting those deer, and they’re half tame.”

Trafford described the hunting of the fox as pursued in England, and Esmeralda listened with deep interest.

“I should like that!” she said. “Yes, I should like it very much! We used to have hunting-parties from Three Star, but we had to stalk the game and shoot it. It was hard work, and you had to be a good shot with the rifle. Varley could bring them down at a tremendous distance—further than I could, though he used to say that I had the best eyes in the camp.”

She chattered about the camp and the old life as they rode along, and Trafford listened almost in silence. Now and again she would beg for a gallop, and would put the mare at racing speed over the smooth turf of the downs, so that Trafford had hard work to keep his heavier nag up with her. She seemed quite incapable of fatigue, and the light shone still more brightly in her eyes at every mile. At last, as they reached an outlying cottage, he insisted upon a halt. She was about to spring from the saddle, but he held up his hand with a smile.

“You must let me help you down,” he said.

She looked at him with surprise, but submitted, and he almost took her in his arms. The faintest blush rose to her face, but it lasted for only a moment.

The woman at the cottage received them in the manner at which Esmeralda had not yet ceased to marvel, and got some bread and butter and tea for them. Esmeralda, as she ate a hearty lunch, talked with her in her usual frank, pleasant way, and as usual won her heart, so that even the marquis himself seemed to be relegated to a back seat. Esmeralda shook hands with her hostess on leaving, and the woman was so touched by Esmeralda’s beauty and frankness that the tears came into her eyes.

“God bless you, my lady!” she said; and as Trafford lagged behind to give her some money, she added to him in a low voice: “She’s as sweet a creature as ever breathed, my lord; and I wish your lordship joy.”

The words rang in Trafford’s ears as they rode home; he knew that the woman had spoken the truth.

If he had never known Ada!

Lord Selvaine was on the terrace as they rode up, and he came forward to help Esmeralda down.

“In the saddle all day, and not tired? She looks as fresh as when you started!” he said to Trafford as Esmeralda ran, singing, up the steps. “She is a marvel, my dear Trafford—a marvel!”

They rode every day—sometimes for nearly a whole day—and whether they were riding or walking, Trafford was generally alone with her. Insensibly, though he never spoke a word of love to her, he was “courting her.” In a thousand little ways he showed his care of her. She was never permitted to mount the mare until he had examined the harness; he always put her up; he restrained her when the jump she wanted to take was too risky even for her. When they went out for a walk, he was always waiting for her with an umbrella or sunshade—both of which articles Esmeralda regarded with something like contempt. He would not let her walk too far, and while they rested at some farm or cottage, his manner toward her impressed the people of the house with her importance.

One day they were caught in a heavy shower, and Esmeralda, who had contrived to leave her umbrella at home, was in danger of being wet through. She thought nothing of it; but Trafford was greatly concerned.

“What does it matter?” she said, lightly. “I shall not hurt.”

“You will catch cold,” he said; “and that matters.” As he spoke he took off his Norfolk jacket. “Let me put this on?” he said.

But Esmeralda stared and declined.

“Why, you would get wet through with only your shirt-sleeves!” she said.

“Please,” he said, with a little air of command.

Esmeralda pouted; but she suffered him to put the jacket on her.

“It is ridiculous,” she said. But as she said it the color rose to her face. The jacket was warm. It almost seemed as if it were a part of himself. She glanced shyly at him as he stood beside her, sheltering her as much as possible.

“One would think I was something precious,” she said, with a little laugh.

He looked at her.

“You are,” he said; and though he spoke gravely, something in his voice deepened the color in her face.

She was very silent as they walked home, where she was received with a tremendous fuss by everybody and made to change her things immediately.

In the house his attention to her was just as constant and unobtrusive. He was always near her to answer her questions—and they were innumerable—to fetch a book she had forgotten, to wrap her shawl round her when they went on the terrace after dinner. Every morning Barker brought her some choice flowers from the greenhouse—“From the marquis, miss!” From even an ordinary man such attentions would have had some effect upon any girl; but coming from a man like Trafford—handsome as a Greek god, and surrounded by the glamour of his lofty rank and position—a man who was regarded by all the place as a kind of prince—little wonder that they affected a warm, tender-hearted girl fresh from the wilds of Australia!

Slowly, unconsciously, she began to feel a kind of pleasure in having him near her, in listening to his musical voice, even in looking at his grave, handsome face. She did not know that love was growing, growing up within her heart. Did not know it even when he ran up to town for a few days, and she missed him, and felt as if something had gone out of her life.

She did not know, too, that they were all, excepting the duke, watching her and the progress of the marquis’s “courting.”

If she had known, she would have taken fright, like the deer in the park, which started at her approach. When Trafford came back from his short visit to London, he looked round the hall, where all but Esmeralda were gathered for afternoon tea, as if he missed something.

“Where is Miss Chetwynde?” he asked, quietly.

She came down the stairs before they could answer. She had watched his arrival from the window of her boudoir, and had remained for a few minutes—why, she could not have told; and as she gave him her hand, her lashes hid her eyes, and she felt that she was coloring.

“I am glad you have come back,” was all she said; and “Thank you, I am glad to get back,” was all he said. And the two little phrases were spoken in the quietest of conventional tones; but Esmeralda felt a strange thrill at the sound of the voice she had missed for two whole days.

On the following night there was a little dance. There were not many people, because most of the families were up in town for the season; but among them was a very beautiful girl, the daughter of Lord Chesterleigh—the man who had spoken to Trafford after the dinner the other night. She was a very fair specimen of a bright, light-hearted English girl, and Esmeralda “took” to her at once.

Lady Mary was as much taken with Esmeralda, and laughed with delight at Esmeralda’s strange speeches and peculiar accent, and did not seem to at all resent the fact that she, Lady Mary, played second fiddle so far as the men were concerned—for they formed a circle round Esmeralda, as usual.

Esmeralda noticed that Lord Trafford and the girl seemed great friends, and remarked upon it to Lady Wyndover, when they were chatting in Esmeralda’s room, before going to bed.

“Ah, yes!” said Lady Wyndover; “they are old friends. She is very pretty, isn’t she? They say that it was thought that Lord Trafford and she would make a match of it.”

Esmeralda was standing before her glass, unfastening a bracelet. She stopped for an instant, and looked straight before her, absently. It was as if something had made her heart jump unpleasantly.

“Do they?” she said, quietly.

Lady Wyndover laughed.

“Why, yes; any one can see that the girl is more than half in love with him. And no wonder, my dear; there are no end of women in love with him! Yes, she is very pretty—the kind of girl that takes men’s fancy.” She yawned behind her hand. “It has been a delightful evening, has it not, dear? But I’ll own to being a little tired. I suppose you are not in the least?”

Esmeralda shook her head.

“Not in the least,” she said.

“I suppose we shall be leaving you soon,” said Lady Wyndover, as she rose and drew her dressing-gown round her. “I mentioned it to Lady Lilias yesterday, but she pressed us to stay. Good-night, my dear. Sleep well—but that is quite an unnecessary injunction, I know; you always sleep like a top or a dormouse.”

But Esmeralda did not sleep like a top that night. She lay awake for a long time—thinking of Lady Mary and Lord Trafford. The girl did not seem so nice to her after what Lady Wyndover had said. In love with Lord Trafford; and ever so many women were in love with him. She thought it over as she lay awake, with her eyes fixed on the starlit sky—for she slept with the blind up and the window open. Air and light were precious to this girl of the wilds. What if she were to say “No” to him? He would perhaps marry this Lady Mary—would certainly marry some woman. The thought brought a strange little pain to her heart that puzzled and troubled her.

Love was growing fast!

When she came down the next morning she was conscious of a novel shyness as she shook hands with the marquis, who as usual, was waiting in the hall for her. He smiled at her in his grave way; then suddenly his dark eyes shone, for he noticed that she wore an orchid bloom which he had sent up to her room that morning.

After breakfast he proposed a ride, and they started. The mare was a little lame from a badly nailed shoe, and Carter brought round a young Irish horse.

“He’s young as yet miss; and you mustn’t ask too much of him, if you please,” he said to Esmeralda.

She was absent-minded this morning, and paid little or no attention; but Trafford heard, and kept his eye on the horse.

It behaved very well until Esmeralda—who was riding ahead—put it at a gate. It refused, and Trafford called to her to let him open the gate; but Esmeralda threw back some response over her shoulder, and tried the jump again. The horse refused, as before, and so clumsily that he slipped and fell.

Trafford was off, and kneeling beside Esmeralda in an instant. She lay, with closed eyes and outstretched arms, motionless, and for a moment he thought she was killed. He raised her head upon his knee, and laid his hand upon her heart, and felt, with a throb of relief, that it was still beating.

“Esmeralda!” he called to her—as we all do under similar circumstances—and presently she opened her eyes. They were vacant, and her face was as white as death.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, anxiously.

“N-o—no; I don’t think so. What happened? Ah! yes; he slipped. It was my fault; you told me not to. One moment—everything is spinning round.”

She struggled to her feet in a minute or so, and he kept his arm around her supportingly.

The light came back to her eyes, and she laughed half apologetically.

“Serves me right for not doing as I was told!”

“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” he queried, still anxiously.

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m used to falling—that’s how we learn at Three Star. I only feel—feel shaky.”

He could feel her trembling and quivering; and he drew her closer to him. A man’s pity for a lovely girl helpless and in pain passes description. At that moment he would have laid down his life for her—would have said, done anything.

She did not seem to notice the closeness of his hold for a moment or two; then she suddenly became conscious of it, and, with a flush rising to her face, she tried to draw away.

“Stay,” he said; and his voice was very deep and full of music that penetrated through her heart. “Don’t move. Rest awhile!”

She obeyed. She felt her heart beating under his hand—not feebly, but with a strong, tumultuous pulse.

“I am all right now,” she said, with a shy laugh. “Let me get up again. I am quite right, and not a bit hurt.”

“Stay,” he said again. “Esmeralda—”

She looked up at him; then her long lashes hid her eyes.

“Esmeralda—give me my answer! Will you be my wife? Ah! forgive me; I ought not to ask you now—”

She did not draw away from him; but her head drooped.

There was a moment’s silence, then she said “Yes!”

The way in which the word was spoken almost awed him.

“You—you love me?” he said.

A moment after the question was put, he felt full of remorse.

She raised her eyes and looked at him, and a new light burned in them—the soft fire of a young girl’s first passion.

“Yes—I love you!” she said, and she hid her eyes upon his breast.

He was carried out of himself, as most all men would have been, and he bent over her and kissed her. At his kiss he felt her tremble and quiver in his arms; then she raised her head, looked into his dark eyes with something of the wonder and trouble of a child who finds joy too much for it to understand, almost to bear, and put her soft warm lips to his.

When they entered the drawing-room, Trafford took her hand, and led her up to Lilias.

“Lilias,” he said, “Esmeralda has promised to be my wife.”

Lilias uttered a faint cry, and put her arm round Esmeralda and kissed her.

Lady Wyndover exclaimed with mingled joy and triumph; and Lord Selvaine took Esmeralda’s hand and kissed it.

“You have made us all very happy, my dear!” he said, and there was a ring of triumph in his voice also.

Then Trafford took Esmeralda to the duke. The old man’s reception of the news brought the tears to her eyes.

“God bless you, my dear!” he said; and as obeying an impulse, she knelt by his chair, and he laid his hand on her head. “God bless you!” he repeated.

The news spread. The whole place was in a state of mild excitement. Perhaps Lord Selvaine—who left for his beloved London immediately—carried the news to town, for the next morning the papers announced the engagement of the Marquis of Trafford to Miss Chetwynde, daughter of Mr. Gordon Chetwynde.

Lady Wyndover was almost beside herself with delight; and something in her overwhelming satisfaction jarred upon Esmeralda, who was very quiet in her new-found happiness.

“You take it all as a matter of course, my dear Esmeralda! You—you amaze me!” exclaimed her ladyship.

Esmeralda smiled absently.

“What ought I to do? Jump, or shout, or sing, or what?” she said.

Congratulations poured in. The palace was besieged by callers who came to wish the marquis and his betrothed every happiness. Not only congratulations but presents, some of them of startling value, such as were worthy the acceptance of a millionairess.

And presently Mr. Pinchook arrived.

He was just the same as of old, and made his congratulations in his dry, reedy voice, which recalled to Esmeralda the voyage to England, and made her laugh at him in her old way.

“I’ve come down on business, as of course you know, Miss Chetwynde,” he said, as they sat together in the library, where he had asked to see her on the evening of his arrival.

“Yes?” said Esmeralda, vaguely wondering why he wanted to bother her, and how soon she could get back to the terrace, where Trafford—her Trafford—would be waiting for her.

“I want to talk to you about the marriage settlements,” said Mr. Pinchook.

“Marriage!” echoed Esmeralda. “Why—why—we are not going to be married yet, are we?”

“You should know better than I,” said Mr. Pinchook, dryly. “Lady Wyndover speaks of an early marriage; and, if you will allow me to say so, I think it can not be too early. Why should you wait?”

Esmeralda looked straight over his head.

“Well?”

“Well, I have seen the marquis’s lawyer,” continued Mr. Pinchook, “and I learn from him that it is proposed that one half of your fortune should be settled on you for your own use, and that the remainder should pass to the Belfayre estates, to become, in short, the property of the marquis.”

“Well?” said Esmeralda, indifferently.

Mr. Pinchook looked at her and coughed.

“Does this arrangement meet with your approval?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Esmeralda, as indifferently as before. “What is the use of asking me? Why don’t you talk to Lady Wyndover about it?”

“I have,” said Mr. Pinchook.

“Or—or to Lord Trafford?”

“I haven’t—because it would be irregular. I’ve seen his lawyer.”

“Very well, then,” said Esmeralda. “Do whatever you like—whatever you all like. I don’t care in the least. I don’t understand it.”

“Let me explain again,” said Mr. Pinchook. And he explained.

Esmeralda rose and edged toward the door.

“Thank you,” she said. “Yes, oh, yes, it is all right. You don’t mind my going now? Lord Trafford is waiting for me, and—”

She fled; and Mr. Pinchook rose and gathered his papers together.

“Yes, it’s all right,” he said, cynically. “She buys her coronet with a million. Humph! I hope she has made a good bargain!”