Esmeralda went to her room that night with her head throbbing and her heart aching. The sight of Trafford bending over Lady Ada at the piano had almost driven her mad; it had made her quite desperate, and the laughter and applause with which she had encouraged Norman had something of recklessness in it. She did not acknowledge to herself that she had meant to play him against Lady Ada; to show Trafford that, if he did not love his wife, there was some one else who did, but she knew the effect she had produced, and the remembrance of Lady Ada’s smile of comprehension stung her as she tore off her jewels. The sight of them filled her with loathing. They were so magnificent that every one who saw them upon her must be reminded of the fact that she was the rich Miss Chetwynde. Perhaps everybody knew that Trafford had married her for her money, and was laughing at her contemptuously in their sleeves.

As for Norman, he went to bed very well content with himself. He had said what he wanted to say to Esmeralda, and put things square between them, as he phrased it, and everything was now very jolly and pleasant. It had been all fancy, that idea of his that she might be unhappy—just fancy. Never for a moment did it occur to him to desire to flirt with Esmeralda; he was incapable of such disloyalty to his friend and hero Trafford. Esmeralda’s behavior at the piano, her laughter and reckless gravity, did not convey any sinister significance to him; it was just her way to laugh and let her eyes sparkle like her diamonds when she was happy; and no doubt the songs he had sung had reminded her of Three Star.

If he could have seen and understood the smile which gleamed in Lady Ada’s cold eyes as she undressed that night, he would not have felt quite so serene and self-satisfied. It is said that there is a good deal of the serpent in every woman, but Lady Ada was all serpent as she stood before the glass looking at her “faultily faultless” face, and recalling the scene at the piano and Trafford’s frown. If she could only separate Trafford from the girl he had married! She had no plan deftly formed as yet, but—well, she would wait and watch. Meanwhile, things promised well.

The neighbors flocked to call upon Lady Trafford, and dinner-parties were arranged in her special honor, and it was agreed on all sides that she bore herself remarkably well. The men raved about her beauty quite as much as, if not more than they had done, before her marriage, and the women wondered at the coolness and aplomb with which the young girl, who was a “mere nobody” before her marriage, took her place in the ranks of the nobility. Only one or two of the elder ones noticed something strange in her expression, something vaguely and indefinitely puzzling in her manner. They all agreed that matrimony had not lightened Trafford’s gravity, and that he was rather more absent-minded and reserved than ever, excepting when his wife was speaking or any attention was due to her from him.

“He is evidently devoted to her,” remarked Lady Chesterleigh, after the Belfayres had departed. “I never saw a man more hopelessly in love.”

“And no wonder,” retorted her husband, with a yawn. “She’s the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen, present company excepted, my dear, and his marriage has pulled Belfayre out of the mire and set it on its legs again. Devoted! I should think so! He has reason, as the French say.”

No one suspected the truth, that husband and wife were divided by that gulf which had so suddenly opened between them on their wedding-night.

Outwardly it was a very happy party at Belfayre. Norman, for one, was enjoying himself amazingly. Esmeralda had promised to treat him as her “special” friend; she had dispelled, by her gayety, the idea that she was unhappy, and his light heart rose buoyantly. He was a general favorite at Belfayre, and even the duke liked to hear him talk, and forgave him the slang which Norman had always to explain and translate into ordinary English for his grace’s enlightenment. It was very amusing to see them together; the old man the picture of courtly preciseness, the young one full of fin de siÈcle gayety and careless, easy irresponsibility.

“Not a bad run, you know, sir,” he would remark, in the midst of a description of a race—the duke was always pleased to hear of the great events of the outer world into which he so seldom entered. “Soup Ladle ought to have won; all the pencilers had the spondulacs upon her; but she ran wild and all over the shop—”

At this point his grace would look puzzled, and, with a smile, remarked gently:

“Forgive me, my dear Norman, but I’m afraid I do not quite understand. I fear that you will think that I am growing stupid. Who are the ‘pencilers,’ and what are ‘spondulacs?’ and—I think you said that the horse with the ridiculous name ran into a shop. Is there any shop near the course? I do not remember it.”

Then Norman would laugh and look guiltily at Lilias, who often sat in the garden with them and listened with intense amusement; and she would smile and shake her head as much as to say that she would not help him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Norman would explain, with a suppressed groan. “Quite forgot I wasn’t talking to one of the other Johnnies—I mean, fellows. The book-makers are called pencilers—they book their bets with metallic pencils, you know; and spondulacs is money, and when I say that Soup Ladle ran all over the shop, I mean that she was all over the course.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” the duke would say. “Quite so. It was very stupid of me; but—my dear Norman, I am quite out of the world, and am ignorant of its jargon.”

“That’s all right, sir,” Norman would say, encouragingly; and start off again, with a nod of self-satisfaction to Lilias and a whispered “Got off that time; shall catch it some day, though; and serve me right.”

Lilias ought to have been shocked at the young man’s slang and general levity, but, strange to say, she was not. Your very quiet and exquisitely mannered women are always attracted by the wild and rough-and-ready way of the other sex. It is the law of natural selection.

She liked to listen to Norman’s stories, and his laugh—frequent and not seldom rather loud—did not jar upon her; and Norman, half unconsciously, got into the habit of going about with her and talking to her. Though she insisted that Esmeralda should be the “mistress” at Belfayre, and always consulted her upon all important matters connected with the huge household, Lilias still, in reality, “ran” the place, and she often found Norman at her elbow at busy moments. He wanted her to go for a walk, or a ride, or to play tennis with him; and when she declared that she was busy with the housekeeper, or arranging the menu for a lunch or dinner, he, after a slight remonstrance, dropped into a chair beside her, and, as she put it, “hindered” her terribly.

“You’ve made me put down the wrong soup and leave out one of the entrÉes,” she would say. “Can’t you find something to amuse yourself with for half an hour?”

“I’d scorn to amuse myself when I can be helping you,” he would retort. “If it were not for my assistance you would break down under the weight of your duties. Now, when you’ve muddled that bill of fare as much as you want to, hand it over to me and I’ll set it straight for you, and without extra charge. And look here; I wish you’d tell the butler to tell the second footman—I think his name is Grooms—not to spill the melted butter down my coat when he is laughing at my jokes. I’m a poor young man, and have only one dress-coat in the world, and Grooms ought to have more human sympathy. Oh! come on, and let the housekeeper finish that thing; she’ll do it far better than you can. I’ve got the balls and your racket.”

“Why don’t you ask Esmeralda or Ada to play with you?” Lilias would ask.

“Esmeralda has got a headache, and is sitting with the duke in the west arbor, and Lady Ada has gone for a ride with Traff and Selvaine.”

“And so you come to me because there is no one else?” Lilias would say, with affected indignation.

“Exactly—that’s it,” would be the cool response. “So come on.” And in the end he would have his way, and, protesting that he was a nuisance, Lilias would put on her tennis-shoes, which he had in his pocket, and they would go off together, and Esmeralda would hear Lilias’s soft ripple and his clear laugh where she sat beside the duke.

The old man seemed to grow fonder of her every day, and Esmeralda’s affection for him was almost piteous. He was the only person in the Belfayre group who did not think of her money—who had not abetted her marriage to Trafford with mercenary views. They were very much together; he seldom went into the grounds without her, and very often she went to his own sitting-room and read to him. Sometimes they would sit for half an hour without talking, and his grace would glance at her occasionally or take her hand and pat it. If her unhappiness dawned upon his dimmed perceptions, he never spoke of it; but once or twice he had looked at her curiously. His pride in her was extraordinary, and on the morning of the great dinner-party at the Court, he actually asked her what she was going to wear.

Esmeralda laughed softly, then stifled a sigh.

“I don’t know,” she said; “Barker generally settles it. It does not matter. But it is very kind of you to ask, duke.”

They were sitting by the open window of his room. Lilias was with the housekeeper, Norman lounging at the door and “hindering,” as Lilias declared, and Trafford and Ada were walking up and down the terrace. Esmeralda could see them from where she sat. Trafford was pacing slowly, with his head bent and his hands behind him; Ada gliding gracefully by his side, and now and again looking up at him with the expression on her face which always set Esmeralda’s heart beating.

How much longer could she endure the sight of them together?

“I take an interest in everything concerning you, my dear,” said the duke. “I have not had a daughter until now, and my interest has been accumulating, you see. It is to be a large party, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Esmeralda, absently, “I think so. Yes, it is,” she added, turning her eyes from the two persons below. “We have asked everybody.”

“That is right,” he said, approvingly. “Belfayre has been quiet too long; it is only fitting that we should be hospitable, and on a large scale. I hope I shall be well enough to be at dinner. In any case, I shall come into the drawing-room afterward, if only to see you, my dear. By the way, you know that I have given instructions to the surveyors to begin the Bay plans?”

The famous watering-place scheme had dropped out of sight lately, and Esmeralda had almost forgotten it. She started as the duke referred to it. She understood. It was her money that was to work the miracle.

She laughed with a touch of bitterness, for which she was sorry a moment afterward. After all, it was the best use the money could be put to; it would amuse and gratify this old man who loved her for herself and not her millions.

“I am very glad,” she said.

“Yes,” he went on, “I tell them they must be as quick as possible. I should like something tangible accomplished before I pass away. I want them to build the pier or the esplanade, and I hope that you will lay the foundation stone, or whatever it may be. I should like to see you inaugurate this scheme, my dear, to have it associated with you. You always thought well of it, did you not? I have fancied that the others—even Trafford and Selvaine—were rather lukewarm about it, until these last few days and since your marriage.”

Esmeralda understood. It had only been since her marriage that the scheme had become possible.

“I shall take the greatest interest in it,” she said. “We will go down, you and I, and watch the workmen; and when the foundation stone is laid we will have a tremendous feast and paint the whole place red.”

The duke looked at her doubtfully.

“Would not red be—be rather a staring color, my dear—all red?” he said, mildly.

Esmeralda laughed.

“That was only slang, like Norman’s. I mean, that we shall have a great fuss and jollification.”

“Yes, yes,” he assented, nodding. “It shall be done, my dear; anything that will give you pleasure and amuse you.”

Esmeralda left him presently, nodding his head and talking softly to himself, and went to her own room. The prospect of that night’s dinner irritated and annoyed her. The great crowd would come to stare at her and whisper about her wealth and her “luck” in marrying a marquis, and she would have to go about among them and talk and smile—smile though her heart was breaking. She moved about the room restlessly for a time, then went into the garden, carefully avoiding crossing the terrace where Trafford and Ada were talking, and suddenly came upon Norman lying full length in the shade of a bay-tree. A tennis racket was by his side, and a straw hat tilted over his eyes. He heard her step, and sprung to his feet with a sigh of relief.

“Some one to talk to at last,” he said.

Esmeralda smiled.

“Thanks!” she said. “Where is Lilias. I thought you were playing tennis.”

“So did I,” he said, ruefully; “but it always appears we are not. Somebody comes and fetches her away in the middle of every game. It’s this confounded dinner-party to-night. I wonder why people give dinners? Everybody hates them and avoids them when they can. There is more envy, hatred, and uncharitableness bred at a dinner-party than by anything else on earth. Take my case, for instance. Here am I, an able-bodied young man, simply dying to amuse myself—and some one else—and yet I am deserted and neglected, and driven to smoking all the morning, just because there is a dinner-party.”

“I’m not worrying about it,” she said, sinking on to the grass; “and there is—Trafford.”

“Oh, Trafford,” he said, disgustedly. “He seems to have dropped tennis and everything that is wholesome. He and Ada have been stalking up and down the terrace talking books or the improvement of the working classes, as if they weren’t bad enough already. If I went and asked Trafford or Ada to play, they’d stare and smile at me in the superior way that makes a man want to go and shy stones at his grandfather. And as for Lilias—well, I’d better not express my sentiments about that young lady.”

Esmeralda looked at him curiously. His voice had dropped as he spoke Lilias’s name.

“Any one would think that the whole place would come to a standstill if she didn’t fuss around with the housekeeper and the butler and the steward and the rest of them. What do the housekeeper and the butler do for their wages, I should like to know? Any one would think Lilias was the manager of a hotel.”

“Yes,” said Esmeralda, quietly. “It is I who ought to do all she does, and fuss around.”

“Oh—you?” he said, quickly. “That’s different. No one expects you to do anything but”—he looked at her with a quaint mixture of admiration and devotion—brotherly devotion—“but just exist and look beautiful.”

Esmeralda did not blush.

“Thanks,” she said again.

“Oh, it’s quite different with you,” he went on. “And it’s all right that Lilias should look after things.”

“But she need not neglect you in doing so,” said Esmeralda, naÏvely.

“Exactly,” he said, calmly, but with a little heightened color.

“Why don’t you tell her so?”

His color deepened, and he glanced at her wistfully.

“I wish I dared,” he said under his breath.

“I’ve not remarked any great lack of courage on your part in that way,” said Esmeralda, dryly.

“Oh, no; I’ve got cheek enough for most things,” he assented, with a sigh. “But—but— Isn’t she—isn’t she—”

Esmeralda laughed softly.

“Yes; she is the sweetest and dearest girl in all the world,” she said. “And you are just finding it out? Ah, how happy you must be!”

And she sighed.

“Happy!” He flushed. “I don’t see where the happiness comes in. You appear to forget that I am a pauper, Esmeralda.”

“Yes,” she said, gravely. “I forgot that. The hateful money!” The words burst from her with fierce energy. “What does it matter? Do you think you would be any the happier if you had—yes”—bitterly—“all my money? If you love her you can tell her so, and if she loves you—marry her right away.”

Norman stared at her breathlessly, then laughed ruefully.

“You’d better let Lord Selvaine—he’s one of her guardians, you know—hear you offering that advice. He’d have a fit—no, he wouldn’t, because nothing ever throws him over; but he’d smile and ask me when I thought of going back to my lunatic asylum.”

“And you could tell him to go to his,” said Esmeralda, her eyes flashing. “You could tell him that the people who are mad are those who sell themselves and their wretched little souls for money. Money—money! I hate the sound of it. And you are in love with Lilias?” she said, after a pause, recovering herself, and with a little smile.

Norman looked rather ashamed of himself, and Esmeralda laughed a little wearily.

“There’s no occasion to look like that,” she said, in a way that reminded him of Three Star. “Why shouldn’t you be in love with her or any one else?” She laughed. “You don’t think I mind?” for Norman still looked uncomfortable. “Why should you keep on remembering what—what happened ever so long ago—when I’d quite forgotten it?” she added, rather cruelly. “And I don’t see how you could help falling in love with her, and I think you’ll be a very lucky young man if you can persuade her to fall in love with you. And mind,” she went on, almost fiercely, “if you can get her, marry her! Never mind being a pauper, never mind people telling you that because you haven’t any money of your own you ought to marry some wretched girl who has. Shall I tell you what would happen if you did?”

Norman stared at her as she stood before him with pale face and somber eyes, behind which lay something which mystified him.

“She’ll hate you, and you’ll hate yourself, and wish that you’d married the girl you loved, though you’d only a loaf of bread to share with her!”

Norman was almost frightened, and seeing it, Esmeralda controlled herself and forced a laugh.

“You see I’m an old married woman, Norman,” she said, with a reckless gayety. “And so I’m allowed to bully you. See?” She almost ran away from him, and left Norman with his hat tilted far back on his head and a bewildered look in his blue eyes; also the conviction that no man alive could ever understand a woman.

Esmeralda had forgotten all about Trafford and Ada on the terrace, and was not aware that they had both been witnessing her interview with Norman, though they were too far off to hear a word. Trafford had watched the animated little scene with gloomy eyes, and Ada with a significant smile; he went down the steps as Esmeralda approached the terrace with her swift, light step. He saw that she was flushed, and that there was something like tears in her eyes. He looked from her to Norman, who still stood, a nice study for a statue of Perplexity.

Esmeralda was about to pass him, but he stopped her with a question.

“Have you been playing tennis?” he asked.

She looked at him for a moment, as if she had not heard, then she said, unsuspectingly:

“No; I’ve only been talking to Norman.”

“Judging by appearances,” he said, “it must have been an interesting conversation.”

“It was,” she said. She looked at him wistfully for a moment, thinking that if all were well between them, how she should like to tell him of Norman’s secret, how she should like to plan with him some way of giving Norman the money which would enable him to ask for Lilias; but she remembered the gulf between them—the sight of Ada leaning on the terrace rail reminded her forcibly of it—and she remained silent. Trafford stood still, his face overcast, struggling against the growth of the suspicion which Ada had planted in his mind, and which Esmeralda’s conduct and manner seemed to justify. She waited a moment or two as if to see if he wished to say anything more to her, then went into the house. As they passed her, Ada said: “How hot it is!” and Esmeralda made the proper response and gave a suitable smile. She met Lilias in the hall.

“There is a young man waiting for you, dear,” she said, “with a tennis racket in his hand and bad words in his mouth.”

Lilias blushed ever so faintly and sweetly.

“You mean Norman?” she said. “I told him I was too busy to play—but he is so foolish!”

“Go and be foolish, too,” said Esmeralda. She bent and kissed Lilias impulsively.

Lilias looked a little startled, and went out rather slowly, and Esmeralda went up to her own room. As the day wore on, the coming dinner-party began to make itself felt, and quite half an hour before the usual time Barker came in to dress her. Esmeralda was lying down; she had been pacing up and down the room until she had nearly worn herself out, and she received Barker with a listlessness and indifference which filled that young woman with dismay.

“I thought you’d like to be dressed in good time, my lady, so that you can go down to the drawing-room before the party arrives. Of course, you’ll wear white velvet with the diamonds and sapphires?”

“I’ll wear anything you like,” said Esmeralda.

Barker got out the magnificent dress with a reverent care, and Esmeralda submitted herself to the robing with a dull kind of apathy. Barker grew anxious and tried to rouse her mistress’s interest.

“If you’d only just look in the glass, my lady,” she said. “It really is superb! And there won’t be anything like it in the room. They used to talk about Lady Desford’s pearl satin, but this completely effaces it.”

“Effaces is a good word,” said Esmeralda. She turned to the tall pier glass and looked at the reflection. She knew that Barker had spoken the truth—it was superb. The combination of the soft tones of the white velvet with the magnificent diamonds and sapphires was simply perfect. Devoid of vanity as she was, a little thrill ran through her; she realized that it was not only the dress and the gems which were beautiful. Then, suddenly, with a pang, she remembered that it was all of no use; the man she loved loved her not. He had married her for her money; to him her beauty would be as nothing; he would have no eyes for any one but Ada Lancing. She turned suddenly to Barker.

“Take these off!” she said. Every one, as they gazed at her, would say that the Marquis of Trafford had married her for the wealth which the dress and the jewels proclaimed. “Take them off!”