“No, my lord,” said the man. “Your trunk has come. I have had it put in your berth. Perhaps you’d like to go aboard and get comfortable before she starts?”
Norman started, then went white and trembled—actually trembled.
Why not? Why should he not follow her? Trafford was not here, the berths were booked, the ship would sail to-night—in half an hour! His mother was out of danger—better! In what more effectual way could he prove his great love for and gratitude to Esmeralda than in going after her and in restoring her to love and happiness?
He set his teeth tight.
“Yes,” he said, grimly. “I think you’re right. I’ll go aboard. Can you give me a light? Thanks. If any one comes for me—even at the last moment—let me know, anyhow, at any cost.”
He stepped on board.
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
It has been remarked more than once that truth is stranger than fiction; certainly no one, however highly imaginative, would have planned out a stranger and more improbable game of cross-purposes than was played by Trafford and Norman that night.
Trafford had wandered about in a Heaven-forsaken way from his rooms to the club, and through the park, just missing Norman by a minute or two; possessed by that restlessness which insomnia by night and brooding over his troubles by day had superinduced. If the porter had been in when Trafford wandered into the club on the second occasion, he would have heard of Norman’s call and inquiry for him, and the two men would have met, explanations would have ensued, and some portion of the awful load would have been lifted from Trafford’s mind. But the porter had gone out to meet the young woman to whom he was engaged, and had not transferred Norman’s message to the footman.