“What do you want with her?” he asked, hoarsely.
She affected not to notice the change in his voice.
“I have something of hers I want to restore to her,” she said, with a little laugh. “I borrowed some ribbons and things from her a little while ago, and this must have been among them. I did not notice it until I got to my own room. It is an old letter; I don’t suppose it is of any importance—I haven’t read it, of course—but she may like to have it back.”
He held out his hand mechanically, and she extended the letter, but drew it back slightly.
“I needn’t trouble you,” she said. “I shall see her in the drawing-room.” His hand dropped, but she held out the letter again. “Perhaps you had better take charge of it,” she said, carelessly; “I may lose it; for, of course, I haven’t a pocket to put it in.”
He took the letter, and humming an air which was being played on the piano, she passed him and left the fernery. Trafford held the letter for a moment or two; then, as mechanically as before, looked at it and read it. For a brief second its significance did not strike him, and when he realized its full import, it did not startle him. Coming after what he had seen, it appeared to be just another link in the chain of damning evidence.
He crushed the letter in his hand, then let it fall upon the ground and put his foot upon it. He understood now why Esmeralda had been so startled at meeting Norman on her wedding-morning. A hundred little circumstances rose in his mind to help to condemn her. His heart was torn with conflicting emotions; there was wounded love, outraged honor, the terrible ruin of all his faith and trust. But with it all there was a feeling that the gods had only meted out to him bare justice. He had married her for her money; when proposing to her, he had not spoken of love; well, she had given him her money, she had bestowed her love upon Norman!
And now, what should he do? Should he go into the drawing-room and take Norman by the throat? Should he proclaim his wife’s dishonor before the brilliant mob there?
He felt strongly impelled to do so; then he thought of the scandal, the open shame, his father, Lilias, and he stood irresolute. Besides, even at that moment his love pleaded for her. She was so young, so inexperienced; there had been no one to help her, to stretch out a hand and pluck her from the brink of the precipice. No! he could not proclaim her guilt.
He wiped the cold sweat from his face, and went out into the night.