“Go at once!” she cried. “Oh, if I only knew where to go—what to do. And all this time people are asking for her—wondering where she is.” She almost screamed as she realized the hideous wreck of Esmeralda’s life.
“Be calm!” he said. “I—I have thought of that. I came to ask you to help me. We must keep the fact of her flight secret—for a time, as long as we can. I have told them—Lilias—that she is with you—”
“Yes—yes,” she panted, eagerly. “I see. But—but the servants here, they know that she is not?”
“Go down to Deepdale,” he said, slowly, as if he were imparting something he had learned by heart. “Tell them that she went there thinking that you were there, that she is ill—the sudden shock of my father’s death. You understand?”
“Yes—yes,” she repeated, getting up and stretching out her hands nervously as if for her out-door things. “I understand. But—but how long can we keep it up?”
He shook his head.
“I know not. But it will give us time. It will be something to have hidden the truth until—until after the funeral.” His head drooped.
Lady Wyndover went over to him and laid her trembling hand upon his arm.
“Forgive me, Trafford. I have been—been hard with you. I had forgotten that he was dead. But I”—her voice broke—“I love her so! I’ve never had a child of my own, and Esmeralda—” Her sobs choked back the words.