As Esmeralda, the girl from the wilds, she had made a sensation; as Miss Chetwynde, the fiancée of the Marquis of Trafford, and future Duchess of Belfayre, she was at once raised to a position of vast importance. She was sought after, and courted, and flattered to an extent that would have turned most girls’ heads. But Esmeralda managed to retain her simplicity and modesty through it all.
Men raved about her and envied Trafford, and the women copied her dresses, and even her peculiar accent, and envied her. Even her strange backwood phrases became the fashion, and when she made a slip in grammar, her auditors did not sneer, but smiled, as if she had said something clever.
As Lady Wyndover said, “You may say what you like, wear what you like, do what you like, when you own two millions, and are going to be the Duchess of Belfayre.”
Her ladyship was in her glory. Her hall table was strewn with cards, and all the big and most exclusive houses open to her; for was she not the guardian of Miss Chetwynde?
And Trafford? It is hard to describe his condition. He had done his duty, and was going to save the noble house of which he would some day be the head. He had won one of the loveliest girls in England; but he told himself that he still loved Ada Lancing.
They met, for the first time, after the announcement of his engagement to Esmeralda, at a dance at the Countess of Blankyre’s.
She came late, as usual, and Trafford made his way to her. He noticed, with a pang of remorse, that she was thinner, and that her face was more ethereal-looking even than it had been.
She greeted him with the quiet nonchalance which we favor nowadays, the quietude and repose which must be observed though our hearts are breaking: and not until they had taken two or three turns round the room did she speak; then she said:
“So it is done, Trafford?”
“Yes; it is done,” he said, gravely. She drew a long breath, and he felt her hand close tightly upon his.