“What is it? Something very dreadful?”
“Well, yes,” he said, hesitatingly. The courtly old man was almost sorry to have referred to anything that was grewsome in her bright young presence.
“Please tell me!” she said.
“Must I? I am not sure that I ought to do so. You will always remember it when you come here. One of the Traffords committed suicide here.”
“Oh!” said Esmeralda. “A man?”
“No, a woman,” said his grace. “It is a very sad story. She was the wife of a Marquis of Trafford—my great-great-uncle. It was a very unhappy marriage. The marquis was poor, and married her for her money; it was what is called a ‘a marriage of convenience.’ They are seldom anything but unhappy arrangements, and generally prove terribly inconvenient. She was in love with her husband, but he detested her. But though he, no doubt, treated her with coldness, I am quite sure he was not guilty of actual cruelty; no Trafford has had that crime laid to his charge.”
“You mean that he didn’t beat her?” said Esmeralda, much interested.
“Er—just so,” said the duke. “They lived together unhappily for some years, until one night the unfortunate lady stole from the house and threw herself into the lake here. They found her next day, with a smile on her face—the first she had worn since her marriage, they said.”
Esmeralda stared at the lake and shuddered. She could almost see the white figure floating on the top of the silent water.
“Why did she not leave him—run away?” she said, almost to herself.