As she passed along the corridor she paused at the door of the duke’s room and for a moment the unnatural calmness of her face wavered and broke up, as it were.
It was the duke’s habit to sleep with the door partly open; it was so open to-night. An irresistible longing to look once more upon the old man who loved her took possession of her. She could not beat it down, and softly pushing the door open, she entered the room.
The duke lay in a great bed with hangings of white velvet. The furniture of the room was white—a fancy of the old man’s. She went softly up to the bed, and looked down on him. He lay sleeping as peacefully as a child, his face as placid as that of a marble mask. She could scarcely hear him breathe as she bent lower and lower until her lips touched the wrinkled forehead. As she kissed him, a tear, the existence of which she was ignorant, fell upon his face.
He did not move or wake, but a smile passed over his face like the sunlight falling upon a still mere. She was glad that he had smiled, that her last look at his dear face should ever linger in her mind with that deep and solemn presentiment of an old man’s peace and happiness. She stretched out her hands to him, and her lips moved, but no spoken words broke the almost death-like stillness, and slowly, with her eyes lingering upon him, she passed out.
As she went down the stairs into the hall, the hound woke and sprung to his feet with a low growl; but when he saw that it was she, he came forward slowly, wagging his tail and looking up at her with loving eyes, and pushed his head against her hand, assured of the caress which she never denied him. She took his head in both her hands and kissed the great smooth forehead almost as lovingly as she had kissed the duke; for both man and dog loved her well—better than the husband who believed her to be a vile and guilty woman. The dog would have followed her when she opened the door, but she softly bid him go back, and he stood and watched her with wistful and troubled eyes as the slim figure stood against the darkness of the night for a moment before it disappeared.
She paused for a moment or two under the great fluted column to decide which way she should take; then she went down the terrace steps and straight along across the garden to the avenue. Had she turned to the right, she would have entered the path which led to the small wood or spinny where Trafford was pacing up and down in his agony; had she turned to the left, she would have crossed the path and met the gamekeeper on his rounds; but, as it happened, she chose the direct road and was seen of none, and so passed through the great gates like a spirit of the night.
Norman, like most strong and healthy young men, was a heavy sleeper. Trafford used to declare that nothing short of an earthquake, or the announcement of breakfast and the prospect of something to eat would waken Norman. Usually Trafford’s man knocked at Norman’s door, and never by any chance getting an answer, entered after a respectful interval. On this morning he did not wait after knocking, but went into the room and said rather louder than usual: “Half past eight, my lord.” This being repeated half a dozen times without any perceptible effect, the man gently shook Norman by the shoulder, and at last the blue eyes opened with an amazed expression, which invariably gave place to one of disgust, and the yawning question: “Oh, is that you? Getting-up time already?” This morning he looked more disgusted and yawned more widely than ordinary, for he had sat up smoking until late, or rather, early, thinking of Lilias, and Esmeralda’s wonderful goodness to him, and he felt as if he could very willingly have knocked the awakener’s head off.
“Half past eight?” he said. “Dash it, I don’t seem to have been asleep more than half an hour.”
“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” said the man. “I knew your lordship was up late last night, and I should have let you sleep for another half hour, but this telegram’s just come for you, my lord.”