[CHAPTER XXIV.]
She heard him pass through the Lilliputian hall, and down the garden path; heard the gate clang behind him, and at the sound a pang of pain shot through her.
She sat, where he had left her, looking out at the night with vacant eyes. Her life seemed to have come to a sudden stop; he had taken all the joy, the hope in it away with him.
She had tried to think, to realize her future; but it was hard work, for his voice was ringing in her ears, and his face—so white and haggard—came between her and the darkened window. She had promised not to go, not to leave him—to avoid the scandal; and he had promised to forget that she was his wife. They would be friends, in outward seeming, at any rate. She sighed. She knew she could trust him, for in all else but in marrying her for her money, she felt that he was the soul of honor, and a promise would be sacred to him.
Not one word of Lady Ada had she said; shame for him, not herself, kept the name from her lips. He should never know she had heard Lady Ada’s shameful avowal or his words of love to her.
Life stretched before her grim and black; she thought of Three Star, of Varley Howard’s love, of the “boys’” protecting care of her, and her eyes grew moist, and a tear dropped upon the Worth dress, and shone beside the diamonds. If she could only go back, and forget that she had ever been anything but the pride of a diggers’ camp! Forget she was Miss Chetwynde, the millionairess—a crimson blush rose like a stain to her pale face; no, she was not Miss Chetwynde, but the Marchioness of Trafford. She was married to a man with whom she had quarreled on her wedding-night, a man to whom she was only to be “a friend in outward seeming!”
She scarcely gave a thought to Norman Druce, for Trafford and Lady Ada were the central figures in her mind, and no one else counted.
She did not know how long she sat in the darkened room, but she felt at last that it must be very late, and, with a dazed feeling, she rose, and went upstairs. Trafford had not come in, she knew, for she had not heard him. Where was he? Had he changed his mind and left her?
Barker was waiting for her, and being still full of the rustic charms of Deepdale, was eager to talk. Esmeralda let her chatter on, scarcely hearing a word, then sent her away as soon as possible. A strange feeling of loneliness took possession of her; and yet it was not strange, for until to-night she had always had friends near her. To-night she was utterly alone. The Marchioness of Trafford, the future Duchess of Belfayre, with a jewel-box crammed with gems, with a million of money to do as she pleased with, was, with it all, one of the unhappiest women in all England!
She sat up for hours listening; the little house grew still; she went to bed at last, but lay awake, listening still. But his footstep did not sound on the gravel path. The house remained as silent as the grave.