He had been sitting motionless so long that it was not[313] likely the new-comer would be aware of his presence. As he leaned against the saddle, he wondered who this sharer of his solitude could be. The thud, thud came nearer, and presently, in the clear evening air, Trafford saw emerging from behind a clump of trees the horse and rider. He did not move a muscle—not even when he saw that the rider was a woman.Coming soon
[239]Trafford shook it, and getting into his saddle, rode off. His heart beat fast as he found himself galloping along the Three Star road. Along this road Esmeralda must have often traveled. As he looked round upon the wide-stretching plains with their background of towering hills, the whole place seemed to breathe to him of Esmeralda. He could picture her, a slim and graceful girl, not clad in the costly raiment of a London ball-room, but in the short blue skirt and wide felt hat which she had so often described to him. He could understand how strange and bewildering to her must have been the change from these wild solitudes to the whirlpool of fashionable life; how bitterly she must have contrasted the falseness, the selfishness, the self-seeking of his aristocratic set with the simple natures of the rough but honest and genuine folk with whom she had been brought up.
Lady Wyndover looked at him through dimmed eyes.
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“Yes—yes. Go back, Varley, dear,” she panted, “I will come with you.”
She laid her hand upon his arm and turned her head aside.Varley ran up to him where he stood, about a hundred yards from the hut.
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“Three Star Camp?” he repeated. “You are a long way from there.”“I don’t know anything,” she said, “and I couldn’t tell you if I did. Them’s my orders, and I’ve got to obey them.”
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“To-morrow night!” he said, grimly. “I must ride to Wally-Wally.”“Yes, yes!” cried Esmeralda, stretching out her hand to them, half laughing, half crying.Visit our podcast on SoundCloud.
The day of the funeral arrived, and the black-clad crowd of friends and neighbors, gentle and simple, followed the old duke to his last resting-place in the huge marble vault in the crypt of Belfayre church. He had been very popular as well as great, and there were many wet eyes among the multitude; and not a few were moved to tears as much by the sight of the son—the new duke—as by the remembrance of the father; for Trafford looked like one who sorrows without hope of comfort. There was something awe-inspiring in the death-like calm of his face, in which every clear-cut feature seemed drawn and sharpened, and his most familiar friends among the mourners watched him aghast and somewhat puzzled.
“You will waste your time,” said Varley. “She is not there.”
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