The letter reached Belfayre the next morning, and was carried up with scores of others in the post-bag, which was placed on a side-table in the breakfast-room.
For the last two days Lady Ada had opened the bag, and helped read and answer the letters, and this morning Lilias gave the key to her almost as a matter of course.
Almost the first envelope that fell from the bag as she emptied it on the table was Norman’s, addressed to Trafford. She recognized the handwriting in a moment, and her face grew hot. Norman writing to Trafford! What could he have to say? News of Esmeralda! She turned the letter over in her hand with a thirsty longing; then she opened it. It would be easy to say that she had opened it by mistake.
Its contents amazed her. Norman wrote as if his mother were actually ill, and as if—as if he were innocent.
She stood gaping at the badly written scrawl—Norman was anything but literary in his tastes—as if she could scarcely credit her eyes. Norman innocent! Then where was Esmeralda? She looked at the postmark; it bore the Oakfield stamp right enough; the letter had been posted there. She was confused and bewildered, and had the letter still in her hand when Lilias entered the room. She slipped the letter in her pocket, and went on opening the others.
“Here is a telegram from Trafford,” said Lilias in the hushed voice in which they all spoke now. “He lost the train last night, but will come by this morning’s. Esmeralda”—Lady Ada started and turned her pale face—“Esmeralda is ill. She is at Deepdale with Lady Wyndover. Trafford says it is the shock, and that she will not be able to come down for some days—perhaps a week. I—I am almost glad that she is not here. I will write to her to-day. Poor Esmeralda! I know exactly how she feels.” She sighed. “Are there many letters? Any that must be answered?”
“There are a great many; they are all condolences as far as I have got,” replied Lady Ada, with a peculiar dryness in her voice.
Was it true that Esmeralda was at Deepdale? If so, Trafford had seen her, had become reconciled, perhaps.
Trafford arrived in the afternoon and went straight to the library, and Lilias found him there, seated at the table, with his head in his hands.
He looked up and tried to smile as she entered, but the attempt was a ghastly failure.