And now what was she to do? What—what?
“Are you very tired?” he asked after a time. He too had been thinking, and Ada’s passionate sorrow and desperate appeal were still ringing in his ears. Then he determined to put all thought of her away from him—and forever. All his life for the future should be devoted to this girl-wife of his, this beautiful, innocent girl who loved him and who had trusted herself to him. His past was over and buried, and the future looked bright, notwithstanding Ada, for he was wise enough to know that no man could live with such a one as Esmeralda without coming to love her. “Are you very tired? I am afraid that it has been an extremely trying day,” he said; and, almost unconsciously, his tone was tender and lover-like.
Esmeralda started from her miserable reverie.
“Yes, I am tired,” she said. He was struck by the weariness, the “deadness” in her voice, and his voice was still more tender as he said:
“I was afraid you would be. Close your eyes and try to sleep for a little while; if you do not sleep you will get some rest that way. I will pull down the blind on your side. Does your head ache? There is some eau de Cologne in my dressing-bag.”
He pulled down the blind, and as he did so he touched her hand lovingly. She drew her hand away slowly, stealthily, and closed her eyes.
“I will try and sleep,” she said. “No, do not trouble about the eau de Cologne.”
He drew the dressing-bag under her feet for a foot-stool, and arranged the other blind so that she should get all the air there was and yet be screened from the sunlight; then he leaned back, and, that she might not think he was watching her, got a magazine.
The horses went fast, London was soon left behind, and the green lanes of Surrey reached. With every mile he felt as if he were leaving his past—Ada—behind him, and with every mile a sense of relief was increasing. Now and again he glanced at Esmeralda. She was quite motionless and breathing regularly, and he thought of the Sleeping Beauty. A childish fancy for so grave and world-worn a man, but a sweet one. He had been the prince to call that sleeping innocent soul of hers into life and love. The thought sent the blood coursing through his veins, and filled him with a new-born sense of joy. He thought of her, not her money; of the girl, not the millionairess, whom he had married to save the great house of which he would some day be the head. He had vowed to love and cherish her; why—why should he not love her? The magazine, stored with delightful stories and clever illustrations, remained unread.
Esmeralda was not asleep, but she kept her eyes closed and remained motionless until the carriage slowed off, and passing a tiny lodge, drove up a narrow but well-kept drive; then she opened her eyes. She was pale still, but the rest had soothed her nerves, and the terrible tension was relaxed.