She looked at the horses’ ears again, and her lips trembled.
“I am not so presumptuous—so idiotically conceited—as to dream that you should,” he went on. “But you may care for me in time. All I will ask you now is that you will try to do so; that you will let me try to win you for my wife. Will you do that?”
There was a long pause. Though she scarcely realized that he had not spoken one word of his own love for her, she felt, in the innocence of her heart, that there was something wanting. He had asked her to be his wife. He had told her that his great people would welcome her and love her; but he had not knelt at her feet, and told her that he loved her, and implored her to love him, as Norman Druce had done. At that moment the scene by the river in the moonlight at Three Star rose before her. She was silent so long that Trafford grew almost anxious. Was she going to say ‘No’—this waif of the wilds? He stretched out his hand, and laid it pleadingly on her arm.
The blood rose to her face again; his touch moved her more than all his words had done.
“Well,” he asked, “will you try?”
“Yes,” she replied in a low voice.
He took her left hand from the reins and carried it to his lips. He felt it tremble as he touched it.
“You have made me very happy,” he said; “I trust that you will soon make me happier, by telling me that you will be my wife.”
They were silent for a minute or two. A strange feeling took possession of her. She did not know that she was happier, that her heart was beating with a subtle joy; but the sky seemed bluer and brighter, the birds sung more blithely, the sunlight grew more brilliant, and suffused her with a deeper warmth. His touch seemed to linger on her arm, and her hand burned where his lips had pressed it.
“Esmeralda!” he said, presently.