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 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 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?”

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 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 in the fernery and saw you and Norman together. I saw all—the whole shameful scene.”

Her breath came fast, the color mounted to her brow and dyed her neck. A light, a fierce light, began to gather in her eyes. She was beginning to understand; slowly, very slowly at first; for, in her innocence, it seemed so incredible that Trafford—Trafford, of all men!—should for one single instant believe her capable of such vileness as his words implied. She opened her lips to laugh, but he went on before the laugh came.

“Do not speak, do not attempt to deny your guilt. Words can be of no avail between us. You can not say anything in extenuation of the wrong you have done me which my heart has not already pleaded for you. You, too, have been wronged.”

She started slightly, and her face went white. He was confessing his love for Ada! Her heart hardened to adamant at that moment, and she thought no more of laughter.

“I am justly punished,” he went on; “I accept my punishment. You thought I did not love you; I know with what bitterness against me your heart was filled—it is only natural that you should love him, that your heart should turn to the man who loved you before we met.”

“I love Norman!” she said, more to herself than to him. The denial implied by her words roused his anger again.

“You can not deny it,” he said, between his teeth. “I have seen you together! Do you think I have forgotten your manner when I brought him to you, thinking you were strangers? And if I wanted clearer proof of the vile truth, I have it here.”

He held out the letter. She recognized it in a moment. The blood surged to her face, her lips moved, she was on the point of crying out: “It is true he loves me, but I never loved him; I have never spoken a word of love to him in all my life. It was of Lilias we were talking; it was for Lilias—the kiss.” Then the recollection of Lady Ada flashed upon her; he had confessed that he loved her. Her pride rose like a tide and swept away all softer emotions.

This man she loved had married her for her money while loving another woman, and now dared to deem her guilty of the worst crime of which a woman and a wife can be capable. Well, let him think her so! She would not utter one word of denial, she would scorn to do so.

The color faded from her face, she drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving. It was not only Esmeralda of Three Star Camp but the Marchioness of Trafford that spoke in every line of her face, in the almost imperial gesture with which she extended her hand.

“That letter is mine!” she said, defiantly and haughtily. “Where did you get it?”

“You confess, then?” he said.

“I confess—I deny—nothing!” she said. “Give me my letter!”

She snatched it from him and pressed the hand in which it was gripped against her throbbing heart. Trafford gazed at her with a smoldering fire in his eyes, his teeth clinched.

“The truth now stands between us,” he said. “It was because I held conclusive proof of your guilt that I asked you to spare us both. I will now ask you to listen to the proposal I have come to make to you. Ignorant of the world as you are, you will know that it is impossible that we should live together under the same roof any longer. It is impossible that we can breathe the same air.”

She stood perfectly motionless, her eyes meeting his steadily.

“You must know,” he went on, “that I could put you away from me—that the law could divide us and set us free—but I do not intend to ask for a divorce. No shadow of such shame has ever fallen upon my people. I am desirous of averting it now. You shall remain my wife still in the eyes of the law and the world; you shall remain here, at Belfayre, or where you please, still bearing my name and taking your place in the world as the Marchioness of Trafford.”

She neither moved nor spoke, but waited for the end.

“I make only one condition,” he said. “You can guess that?”

Her lips formed the word “What?”

“That you promise to see him”—he could not speak Norman’s name—“no more. I will deal with him—will find some means of enforcing his separation from you.”

He waited for an answer, but she did not speak.

“I gather from your silence that you consent?” he said.

She did not contradict him by word or look.

“I have now to speak of the money you brought me. It shall be returned to you. You refused it the night—the night of our marriage; you can not do so now. It shall be transferred back to you, and without the knowledge of the world. To-morrow I leave Belfayre and England; it is not probable that I shall ever return. For me, life is over. I shall never see your face again.” His voice broke at the words, but he mastered it again quickly; he did not see the shudder, the tremor, that shook her as she heard them. “If there is any question you wish to ask me,” he went on in so hoarse and low a voice that she could scarcely hear it, “write to me before I go, and I will answer it. I desire to make every arrangement that will tend to render your future an assured one. God knows I have no desire to punish you! As I said, there has been wrong on both sides; I have acknowledged it. You will deem it but a hollow mockery, but I wish you happiness in the future, forgetfulness of the past.”

His breath was labored, and the words issued from his white lips slowly and painfully. He had never been more conscious of her loveliness than he was at that moment; she looked like an angel of innocence and purity as she stood in her white frock under the soft light of the shaded lamp; and his heart ached with a passionate love which, for the moment, almost overwhelmed his jealousy and his sense of terrible injury and wrong.

If she had only spoken; if she had only said to him: “It is all a mistake! I am innocent; I could not help Norman loving me; he is nothing to me, and never has been. It is you I loved and still love!” If she had said this with her eyes meeting his steadily, he could not but have believed her; she would have been in his arms, and the history of Esmeralda, of Three Star Camp, might very well have closed here.

But she said nothing; there was scarcely room for love in her heart, it was so full of pride and an innocent girl’s resentment and indignation. Perhaps he expected, half hoped, that she would speak, would plead for forgiveness; and he felt in his heart that if she were to do so he must yield and take her back.

When he found she did not speak, he turned to the door and unlocked it. Even then he paused.

“Have you nothing to say to me—not one word?” he said.

She shook her head.

“No, not one word,” she said, slowly, mechanically.

Then, with a swift change of manner, she raised her head still higher, and, with a spot of red on either cheek, said:

“Yes! You believe that I have done this thing. You believe that all this time, not only before, but since—since I have been your—wife, I have been deceiving you, have let another man make love to me, have made love to him—”

“How can I help believing it?” he broke in.

“You think that I am a liar and a false woman?” she said. She drew a long breath. “Well, think so. It is easy for you to do so. You judge me by yourself. Have you not deceived me, before and since our marriage? You say you cared for me! You came to me and asked me to be your wife. You knew that I knew nothing of the world, and your sort of man. You were a lord, a gentleman. ‘A gentleman!’” She laughed with bitter scorn. “They were better gentlemen in the Camp; and, though you might be disposed to call them a set of vagabonds, there’s not one of them who would stoop, who would be so mean as to do what you did. You asked me to be your wife because you wanted the money, not because you loved me—for you loved another woman—you love her still!” He took a step forward, his face white, his lips opened to utter a denial. She held up her hand, and it shook. “No use, no use! I have known it ever since the day we were married. I have played the spy, as you have done!” She laughed bitterly. “I was in the anteroom, and heard you and Lady Ada—heard every word!”

His head drooped. He stretched out his hand.

“Don’t say a word!” she said, with an impatient movement of her head. “I have seen you together since she has been here; I have seen her look at you, have heard her voice when she spoke to you. I have learned a great deal since I came to this London of yours. I know what these grand ladies are. Do you think I haven’t listened to the stories of Lady Wyndover and other women? Do you think I don’t know how they live, how little they care what they do, what other women’s hearts they break, so that they can have their own way? You think I don’t know that Lady Ada says to herself, that though you may be my husband, you really belong to her?”

Trafford stood stricken dumb. What could he say? If he had possessed the eloquence of a Cicero he would not succeed in convincing her that his love for Lady Ada was a thing of the past, and that he had grown to love his wife. He turned his head away with a sigh that was like a groan. She looked at him with flashing eyes.

“Have you nothing to say to me—not one word?” she said, repeating his words mockingly. “No; better not; it would be of no use. We know each other, as you think; but you are wrong. You don’t know me; you never have known me!”

He found his voice at last.

“Esmeralda!” he said, hoarsely.

She turned away with a little weary, impatient gesture.

“I am tired!” she said, with a quiver of the lips, but with no abatement of her pride and hauteur. “I do not wish to hear any more! Surely you must have said all you have to say! I quite understand what you want me to do. I know that you and I can not go on living together under the same roof. I will think over what you said, and—I will do as I please! Will you go now? I’ve told you I’m very tired!”

A storm was raging within him. He strode across the room and caught her by the arm.

“Come back to me, Esmeralda!” he said, almost inarticulately.

For a moment’s space, the half of a second, she wavered, then she drew her arm from his grasp.

“You, a gentleman, ask me—believing me to be what you say—to come back to you!”

She laughed discordantly. The laugh struck him like the cut of a whip. He stood looking at her, his breath coming fast and thickly; then, with set lips, he walked to the door. With his hand upon the handle, he looked over his shoulder at her—a long and lingering look in which a man’s agony was expressed. Then he went out and the door closed upon him.