Norman thanked him.
“I don’t care anything about the breakfast,” he said. “I must catch that train; and, look here,” he added, “don’t say anything about the telegram. Just say that I’ve gone up to town, and that I’ll write.”
He did not want the duke to hear of Lady Druce’s illness too suddenly, for very little upset the old man now. Norman would break the news in a letter directly he reached The Manor. But as he went down-stairs he thought he would tell Trafford, and he knocked at his door; but no answer came, and after waiting and knocking again, he went down, thinking it strange that Trafford, who, he knew, was generally so light a sleeper, should not have heard him. He got some breakfast hastily. No one appeared to be up, and he longed, lover-like, for a word with Lilias; even Esmeralda would have been something.
As he was putting on his light overcoat in the hall, he heard a footstep upstairs, and looking up, saw Lady Ada. Even in his hurry and anxiety he noticed that she was very pale, and that there was a singular, tense expression in her face. She started, too, at sight of him.
“Oh, is that you?” she said. “You quite startled me. I’ve a stupid, nervous headache this morning.”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Norman, with his delightful grammar. “I’m off to catch the first train. I’ve had a wire; my mother’s bad. I’m glad I saw you before I went. Will you please tell Lil—Esmeralda”—he stammered and blushed slightly in his confusion—“how it is that I’ve had to go so suddenly?”
She looked at him curiously, with her steel-blue eyes dwindling to points.
Norman was rather surprised at her manner of taking his request; but there was no time for further speech. He jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins, and drove off full pelt.
Lady Ada stood at the door and watched him with a line drawn vertically between her eyes. She had not slept all night. Part of the time she had paced her room; she had heard Trafford go to Esmeralda’s; she fancied that she had heard their voices now and again, as if they were quarreling; then Trafford’s step had passed her door, and all had been still for a time, when she heard, or fancied she heard, lighter footsteps going along the corridor.
Lady Ada was not Lady Macbeth, and though she had dealt what she hoped would prove a mortal blow to Esmeralda’s happiness, she was inwardly quaking as to the result. The schemes of mice and men—and even women—have sometimes an awkward knack of “ganging aglee.” It was just possible that Esmeralda had succeeded in explaining away what Lady Ada considered the irrefutable evidence of her guilt—men are such fools where women are concerned! She desired, yet dreaded, to see Trafford. If Esmeralda had “got over him” and persuaded him of her innocence, he would be sure to turn upon her (Lady Ada), and all would be over between them. She herself was convinced of Esmeralda’s guilt. She didn’t believe for a moment in the telegram or Lady Druce’s illness. Esmeralda had found an opportunity of warning Norman; and he was off, as a man always is on such occasions.