Trafford trembled at the sound of his name spoken with an infinite tenderness.
“Trafford, don’t you think you could love me a little? I know that I am ignorant and common, almost a savage compared with her, and that you have loved her for a long time—but I am your wife, after all, and I love you as well as she does.”
Trafford bit his lip to stifle the moan that would have expressed the anguish of his heart; and not the anguish only, but a sudden swift joy which ran through every vein like fire. She was speaking in unconsciousness, speaking from her heart, the soul’s truth.
“You don’t believe me,” she went on, her brows contracting. “You don’t believe me; you think that I am telling you a lie, that I love some one else—who was it? I forget! I forget!” She moved her head restlessly to and fro. “It is not true. I have never loved any one in the world excepting you, Trafford, my husband. But you are not my husband, are you? You only wanted my money, not me, and you sent me away because you love Lady Ada.”
Trafford could bear no more. He rose and staggered out of the hut and leaned against the wall, with his face upon his arm.
The doctor glanced at him and hurried inside, followed by the two women. He came out again presently to fetch something from the stores, and Trafford grasped his arm.
“How is she?” he demanded, hoarsely.
The doctor shook him off almost roughly.
“In a high fever, if you must know,” he said. “The battle’s just beginning; keep outside here, and leave us to fight it.”
“You will save her? You must—you must! I tell you she must not die! She loves me—she loves me! I know it now! You must save her!”