“‘The long arm of coincidence,’ as the novelists say,” he said. “And now, what brings you here, Esmeralda?”
He felt her sigh.
“Wait till we get home,” she whispered.
He said no more, and they rode on over the plain, through the valley, and up the hill to the old hut.
With what commingling of emotions Esmeralda looked upon it all! Though she could not see anything distinctly, she seemed to see; for she knew every inch of the road, every tree, every curve of the upstretching hills; and they all seemed to welcome her. She could almost fancy that she had never left the beloved spot, and that all that had happened since she bid good-bye to Varley, long months ago, was but a fantastic dream; as if Miss Chetwynde, the millionairess, the Marquis of Trafford, Belfayre and all its ducal splendor, had never existed, save in her imagination.
She leaned her head against Varley’s shoulder and sighed.
There was a light in the hut, and at the sound of the approaching horse, Mother Melinda came to the door with her candle held above her head. As its rays fell upon Esmeralda she uttered a shriek and dropped the candle. The next instant Esmeralda was in her arms, and the two women were sobbing, laughing, and exclaiming as only women can.
Varley tied up his horse, got a light, and managed to tear the two women apart; then he put Esmeralda into a chair, hinted to Mother Melinda that Esmeralda might be hungry, and having got the old woman into the outer hut, sat on the edge of the table and gazed at his child with a smile that did not hide his tender joy at her presence.
But he asked no questions until Esmeralda had eaten and drunk, and was leaning back in the chair with her hands folded in her lap.
“And now, my child,” he said. “Why this thusness? Where is the noble marquis, your husband?”